


Jigsaw Puzzle

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Case File, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 142,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pieces of a relationship coming apart and slowly coming back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While there are no warnings for rape or non-con there is one scene which may be triggery for some.
> 
>  
> 
> The story is set in the early 1980s, hence the lack of gadgets we take for granted.

PART ONE

ONE

True to his promise, the day his place on the squad was confirmed by Cowley, Cook sought out Ray Doyle, tracking him to the office shared by all the field agents.

"Mornin'. You got anything planned for tonight, Ray?" he asked, poking his head round the door.

Welcoming the distraction from a report he should have completed several days ago, Doyle sat back. "Hello, mate. Long time, no see. Not a lot. Why?"

"Because I'm in, that's why," announced Cook, allowing a triumphant grin to escape him as he entered the room. "I thought you could buy me a drink or three to celebrate."

"Great! See, I told you you wouldn't have any problems, didn't I?"

"You also told me Macklin was a pussycat," remembered Cook darkly.

"So I did. How long did it take him to prove otherwise? No, don't tell me now. D'you want some tea - or has Cowley got you on the hop already?"

"Give him a chance, and I'd love some. I've spent all morning form-filling - in triplicate. That's something else you didn't warn me about," added Cook with disgust.

"Thought you should have a few happy surprises," explained Doyle unrepentantly. "Here, get this inside you."

"I could do with it. I hadn't realised getting in meant so much to me until I was waiting for the results," Cook admitted with a sheepish grin, as he took his mug of tea. 

"No one does. You've done well."

Shrugging that aside, Cook was busy taking in his surroundings. "Well, it certainly wasn't so I could enjoy a life of luxury. Strewth, I can see why you lot complain. This room's - "

" - not used very often. Be hard-pressed to swing a field-mouse in here, never mind a cat. Come on," encouraged Doyle, recognising the jubilation behind the other man's nonchalant manner, "you can start boasting now. You must've worked your balls off. The course is always toughest on the married blokes."

"I did," said Cook, spurning any idea of false modesty. "Though I was luckier than most, June was behind me all the way. I don't think it's sunk in yet. I'll feel better once I've got my teeth into something."

"You'd better pop home to see June, then. Speaking of whom, shouldn't you be taking your old lady out tonight instead of me? She'll be well pleased."

"It's lucky June can't hear you call her that. Yes, she was. And I am. We'll have a night on the razzle on Saturday. We might not be getting many more of those for a while."

"We do get the odd night off-duty," Doyle pointed out, remembering his own conviction that he was indispensable to the safety of the nation when he first joined up. It seemed a long time ago. His eyes shadowed as he watched the younger man, he wondered if he had done the right thing in mentioning Cook's name to Cowley; CI5 and marriage weren't always a healthy combination.

"I wasn't thinking of that, not yet anyway," explained Cook, in between slurps of tea. "June's expecting again." He made the announcement as if his wife's fecund state was nothing to do with him. "She got the results of the test through this morning, so it's back to counting the pennies."

Doyle knew him too well to take that deadpan delivery at face value. "Terrific! It's a double celebration, then."

"You could put it like that," Cook conceded, almost bursting with happiness. "D'you reckon Bodie will come?"

"Out with you and your missis?" Doyle was shocked.

"Cretin. Out with us tonight. I would have asked him myself but I haven't seen him around for a while."

Nor have I. Doyle had found himself increasingly aware of the fact over the last six days. "He'd probably jump at the chance of some free booze, but as far as I know he's stuck on a stakeout until midnight. He'll just have to think of us enjoying ourselves while he's working."

"Shame, he's OK is Bodie. Why aren't you with him? I half thought I'd have a problem tracking the pair of you down."

"Not me, mate. I had a spot of bother a few days ago. Henderson's lumbered me with desk duties until the end of the week. Silly sod," added Doyle, rubbing absently at his upper arm, which had reached the irritating stage of healing. "Still, I can't say I'm sorry to have missed this job. Bodie's been on twelve-hour stretches of obbo duty for nearly a week. They drive him crazy," he added in parenthesis, wishing he was there to see it and to watch his partner's back because he did not trust anyone else to do the job so well.

"Bit of a let down, you getting yourself done over, wasn't it?" 

"Don't you start. I've already had a lecture from Cowley - and Bodie." And I haven't seen Bodie since.

"Which was worse?"

"I've got used to Cowley giving me hell."

Doyle's reply telling him all he needed to know about that particular incident, Cook perched on the side of the cluttered desk. "Mind if I ask you something, Ray?"

"I won't know till you ask, will I?" returned Doyle warily, knowing he was hyper-sensitive about anything to do with his partner at the moment because he couldn't take his mind off him.

"What's it like being teamed with someone else - Bodie, for instance?"

"I'm glad you picked an easy question to start with," said Doyle with gentle irony.

Familiar enough with Doyle to know he would give an honest answer if he chose to reply, Cook remained silent. 

"I bet you were a leech in a former life," grumbled Doyle moodily, although he knew he shouldn't have been surprised by the question. It was something every recruit thought long and hard about on joining CI5. "It's - I dunno. Bodie and I have been working together almost since the first. I can't imagine it any other way. It works for us. I'm not saying it's all been easy, mind." Sighing, he pulled a face. "I could talk about it for a week and still not get across how or why it works - or doesn't. That happens too. More often than you might think. Those teamings are split as soon as it's obvious it's not working. It has nothing to do with the number of arguments either. If that was the criteria Bodie and I would have been separated after our first week. I couldn't stand him, or him me. We worked well together, of course, but it was fairly lively. It still is on occasion. The best I can say is that when it works there's nothing better."

"What about when it doesn't?"

"You spend a fortune buying a wreath," retorted Doyle with brutal frankness. "It's not often allowed to get that far. We're always being monitored and assessed. That's something else you'll have to get used to."

"I suppose I will," conceded Cook without enthusiasm.

Doyle made no attempt to break the silence which followed, tracking Cook’s thought processes with ease. Only nutters like Tommy, poor mad, dead bastard, ignored the dark side.

"At least I won't have to put up with Ross and Macklin much. They don't monitor the B Squad do they?"

"What do you think? When it hits the fan you could find yourself in the middle of the action, whatever your coding. And you won't usually get any warning. You'll be watched. Just try not to take it personally."

Cook gave him a look of disbelief.

"I didn't say I'd succeeded," conceded Doyle ruefully. "Our Kate's a sharp one. Keep a few Band-Aids around for when you see her."

"I suppose it's a good safety measure but I can't pretend I fancy the idea of someone poking around inside my head."

"None of us do, mate. You can learn some funny things about yourself," muttered Doyle pensively, his last session with Ross only twenty-four hours behind him.

"This is something else you didn't warn me about," accused Cook. "I didn't take to Dr Ross. I think it was mutual."

"The time to worry is when you don't think that. You should hear Bodie on the subject. Are you being teamed?"

"No. Cowley wants me to work solo. I don't know if that's a good thing or not. Everyone else in my group has been paired off." Cook gave his friend a hopeful look, reluctant to ask but desperate for reassurance.

"Never mind, Cinders, you shall go to the ball," intoned Doyle, remembering his own doubts; some had never left him. "Got you worried, has it?"

"Not worried exactly," prevaricated Cook.

"Good, because Cowley isn't penalising you. Plenty of good agents work solo. Some of the best, now I stop to think about it. Have you met Murphy, Stuart or Jax?"

"I haven't met any of the A Squad - except you and Bodie, of course," said Cook as an obvious afterthought.

"Thanks a bundle. Look, I'll fix up a meeting. I've been teamed with Jax several times, and once with Stuart. Bodie's worked with Murph. They can give you both sides of the story. Jax is married, too, so he can give you some tips on how to break the hours to June. Although she should be used to those by now. Even the Fraud Squad has to work occasionally."

Cook's only defence of his old mob was to stick two fingers up at Doyle. "I suppose she has, more or less. Thanks, Ray. I was beginning to wonder if anything was up."

"Don't worry about that. If something was wrong Cowley wouldn't leave you in any doubt," said Doyle with feeling.

"I gathered that much. But I don't want you to feel you have to spoon-feed me."

"Pull the other one. You'd pick your bloody dog's brains if he had any. Mind, he got Bodie's measure the first time they met. Two sex maniacs together."

"Don't remind me," groaned Cook, recalling the disastrous evening Doyle and his partner had come round for a meal. "Pilot's never done that to a visitor before - or since. Maybe Bodie put him off. It's understandable. I can't see the excitement in dry humping a bloke's leg myself."

"Bodie still thinks we trained Pilot for the purpose of castrating him," offered Doyle hurriedly, all too conscious of the heat rising through his body.

"I wish I'd thought of it. Bodie doesn't like dogs?"

"Not a lot. Not since he was in Africa. It was a good evening though. First time I've seen Bodie go green - with terror, at any rate."

"I suppose he was worried that what he prizes most was at risk, not knowing Labradors. You know him well, don't you?" 

"Pilot?" asked Doyle absently, studying the cold dregs of his tea.

"Bodie."

"We're not back to that, are we," complained Doyle, immediately on guard, his mind full of vivid, heated images of Bodie and himself after they had left the Cooks that night. "Yes, I suppose I do," he agreed, fidgeting in his chair, grateful for the cover of the desk top. Should know better at your age, he told himself. The lecture did little to reduce his immediate problem. "As well as one person can know another."

An unsatisfied look on his face, Cook opened his mouth, thought the better of it and kept quiet.

"What is it now?" asked Doyle with resignation.

"No, you've already said. It's just that I can't - I mean, I've had plenty of mates all my life, but I can't imagine what it's like being that close to someone -another bloke, I mean," finished Cook, awkward as he remembered his wife's joking comment about old married couples when they had waved Bodie and Doyle into their car.

"I've never been married," said Doyle, unconsciously echoing Cook's thoughts. "I came close to it once but it didn't work out - and not just because of the job. I suppose being teamed is a bit like a marriage, good and bad."

"There are a certainly a few drawbacks. Not that I'm complaining. It's worth it for me. You, too, by the sounds of it - if in a different way."

Not caring for open declarations regarding his relationship with his partner, least of all since he and Bodie had started sleeping together, Doyle nodded.

"That's what I thought. I reckon that's answered my question. Thanks, Ray. It sounds like being teamed can be a good arrangement. All you lose out on is the bit of the other - and someone to do the ironing."

"You can tell June's not in earshot," remarked Doyle, wondering for the first time in years if he might be blushing. "Look, I hate to break this up, but Cowley will have my guts for garters if I don't get this report finished for him. Where and when tonight?"

"I'll pick you up about half eight, OK?"

"It's a date," confirmed Doyle, relieved when Cook left.

He stared at the report he was supposed to be working on, thinking about what it meant to be partnered with Bodie, and the injured pride which had prevented him from going to make his peace with him. Somehow pride didn't seem so important any more. Life was too short to waste any of it in resentment. But it was only when Lucas and McCabe burst into the room thirty minutes later that Doyle remembered he was supposed to be working.

 

Having poured Cook into the resigned but loving arms of his spouse, Doyle made his unsteady way back to the waiting minicab, breaking into an occasional reminiscent chuckle on the way home, more relaxed by his evening of light-hearted silliness than he had been for weeks. It was only when he paid off the driver, watching the rear lights recede down the long, straight road, that he realised he had given Bodie's address instead of his own. Mildly disconcerted by the way his subconscious had made the decision for him, he took a heady lungful of fresh air and, his head spinning, aimed himself in the direction of the entrance to the block of flats. Home from home, he decided with an alcohol-induced confidence, his wavering finger finding the right button and staying there.

"Yeah?" said a tinny, unenthusiastic voice after some time.

"You didn't exactly rush, did you. 'S me."

"Ray? Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all... Do I have to stay down here? 'S starting to rain," Doyle announced with a pathos guaranteed to melt the stoniest of hearts.

"Come on up," invited Bodie in long-suffering tones.

It took Doyle two attempts to push the front door open. As he staggered into the elegant hallway the sprung door closed with a last-minute rush, the echoing bang making him flinch. Grateful there were no witnesses to view the collapse of Ray Doyle, superhero, he fought his way through the uncooperative swing doors to discover the lift was out of order. Grumbling under his breath, he mounted an assault on the stairs. Already unsteady, an untimely fit of laughter impaired his progress. It was some time before he reached the fifth floor, having left a trail of small change in his wake from where he had fallen back down one flight of steps.

Rubbing his bruised backside with one hand, he slung his jacket over a shoulder, only to find the silky fabric of the lining evading his grasp. Picking up his jacket where it lay on the floor, he flattened the bell to Bodie's flat. The door opened immediately, as if Bodie had been poised on the other side.

Bodie's guarded expression relaxed into a reluctant grin as he took in the picture Doyle made; he would have appreciated it more if it had not been twenty-to-three in the morning.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" he asked mildly, hauling the rumpled figure inside and attending to the security lock, peripherally aware of Doyle's struggles with the tail of his shirt, which had escaped its moorings.

"No," admitted Doyle, abandoning his efforts to neaten himself. "I gave the driver the wrong address - thought I was goin' home. Came up anyway because I knew you wouldn't mind," he added with a touching faith.

Bodie's sigh indicated it was not misplaced. "Wonderful," he said, more tolerant than Doyle deserved because he had missed him so much. "I hear Cookie got in," he added encouragingly.

Doyle's expression brightened. "Yeah." He stretched the word out an impossible number of syllables. "We've been celebratin'."

"No?" marvelled Bodie, recognising that his partner had reached the chatty stage of inebriation. "Come and sit down before you fall down. Good evening, was it?"

Doyle flowed onto the sofa with a loose-limbed abandon. Unfastening his shirt one-handed, he cricked his neck to give Bodie a bleary-eyed smile of some sweetness. "You could say that." His chuckle was warm and contagious, but it hampered his efforts to remove his boots while horizontal.

Shaking his head, Bodie performed the task for him, peeling off Doyle's socks while he was at it. "Going to let me in on the joke?" he asked, absently cupping a warm, bare foot.

"Course."

"Within the next couple of hours?" prompted Bodie moments later, trying not to watch the hand rubbing the flat belly with a sublime lack of self-consciousness.

"Gimme a minute. Though I suppose it's not really that funny. You needed to see his face when he realised what was happening."

Beginning to appreciate the tale was going to take some time in the telling, Bodie perched on the arm of the sofa, still caressing Doyle's foot with his thumb. "Whose face?"

"Cookie's, of course. You're not concentrating."

"Sorry." Bodie's expression was meek as he fought the temptation to kiss the big toe tickling his palm. "You and Cookie?" he prompted.

"Had a - hic! - great time. Decided to check out some of the places we used to visit when we were on the Force. Met up with a few old mates and one very tasty bird."

"So what are you doing here?" asked Bodie woodenly, releasing Doyle's foot.

Doyle flipped his hand in silent dismissal.

"What went wrong?" sighed Bodie with resignation.

The insight earned him a sleepy smile of affection. "Know too much by half, you do. About me in particular. I don't mind though," Doyle assured him earnestly. "'S nice, belonging. Open book to you, am I?"

His hands rammed in the pockets of his towelling robe, his expression difficult to read, Bodie studied the sensual sprawl of the man occupying his sofa. "Most of the time. Except for a few pages."

Doyle tapped the side of his nose. "Gotta keep some mystery, right?"

"Whatever you say, sunshine. Get back to the interesting stuff. What happened with this bird?"

His eyes closed, there was a dreamy smile on Doyle's face. "She was gorgeous, you know? Tall, blonde and with legs you could die for. Cookie was bloody near dribbling."

"And?"

"Feeling the weight of his marital responsibilities - June's expecting again - he decided to try out the old routine. Just to see if he could still pull a bird." Doyle began to chuckle again.

Bodie nudged a relaxed leg with his foot. "I'm going to be old and grey by the time you get to the point. What happened?"

"Quite a bit. His routine was goin' down great when he took it into his head to by-pass stages three and four to get to the good stuff. He was well gone by that time - 's lucky I was there to see him home." Warned by Bodie's expression and the gesture which threatened imminent strangulation, Doyle added hurriedly, "Anyway, they were getting on like a house on fire when she turns round and introduces us to her husband - six foot four and built like Godzilla. He didn't see the funny side of it at all," he added pensively.

"King Kong," corrected Bodie absently, his eyes on the untrammelled flesh housed within soft, green moleskins.

"Eh? Were you there after all?"

"No. But he must have been like King Kong, Godzilla's female," Bodie explained patiently, wanting to do nothing more than snuggle down on top of Doyle and gently hump his way to climax.

"Yeah? Maybe that's why he got so uptight. Very unfriendly, he was. He'd had a drop too much himself, of course. Knew how handle himself though," Doyle conceded fairly, rubbing his upper arm with an irritated vigour.

"Are you hurt?" demanded Bodie, his smile fading.

"Who, me? Give over. I've got more sense than to go brawling. Nah, I left all the hard work to Cookie. He's going to have a lovely shiner by morning."

"Cowley's going to love that, new boy and all."

"It's June Cookie'll have to worry about first. She's bound to blame it on me, and for once - "

"You mean you didn't fancy the bird?"

"Not right now, no. She was a cracker, mind. You'd have liked her. Shame you were working. I missed you. 'S truth."

Hearing that solemn assurance, Bodie's smile was unforced. "I bet. You'd've loved the twelve-hour eyeball. Speaking of which, I was asleep when you turned up like the bad penny."

"Is it that late?" Doyle felt ready for anything, Bodie for preference.

"Later, and I'm tired."

Doyle subjected him to an unnervingly clear-eyed survey. "You look it. Sorry, I didn't think." Swinging his legs off the sofa, he sat up. "Ugh, I need to take a leak. I could murder a drink, too. Have you got any tea?"

"Tea?"

"I'd love some. Or d'you want me to make it?"

"Don't push your luck." Indulgent against his better judgment, Bodie headed for the kitchen as Doyle disappeared off to the bathroom.

Tea might sober him up, but I doubt it, Bodie thought, having recognised that his partner's high was not wholly alcohol-induced. Tea-strainer clenched in one hand, Bodie stared at it, remembering Doyle as he had seen him last: blood-stained, his skin a dirty white from the local anaesthetic after the shot-gun pellets had been dug out of his arm. They had done Ray a favour in a way, offering a minimal amount of damage for some time away from the firing line - a chance to unwind.

Typical Ray, he had gone over the top as usual. From the look of him he was in danger of unravelling.

Turning back from the refrigerator, Bodie was disconcerted to find the subject of his thoughts propped in the doorway, dressed only in slacks, watching him. Doyle's damp hair indicated he had either taken a quick shower or dunked his head under the tap, droplets of water glistening on a whorl of chest hair. Five minutes ago Bodie would have gone over to lick it off but this remote, tired-looking man was not one to take liberties with, the rumpled air of warm approachability a thing of the past.

"I didn't hear you come in," Bodie said, too quickly because he knew he had been guilty of staring.

"No," agreed Doyle, sounding a great deal more sober. "I'm not surprised after I dragged you out of bed. I'm sorry, I didn't think. Are you OK?"

"Give me a break. Just pissed off and tired. These obbo jobs always leave me feeling like I've spent a week with Macklin. And Lewis isn't the most sparkling of company."

Doyle straightened. "The Old Man's never put you with Lewis? You watch yourself, mate. He can be slow off the mark."

Bodie waved the warning away. "Relax, this is strictly a sit-tight job while we perfect our David Bailey impersonations. I think someone's hoping to turn a Pole from the Trade Delegation."

"I wouldn't have thought it was worth the bother myself," remarked Doyle, still frowning.

"Nor did I. Cowley didn't agree with me." Bodie's pensive tone made Doyle smile.

"Born to be hung, you were."

"That's more or less what Cowley said, only he was more long-winded. Still, at least I'm not on duty until nine tomorrow night."

"Good," said Doyle with satisfaction, picking up a mug of tea.

"I'll take that."

Doyle turned in the doorway to giv him a look of surprise, light flooding in from the room behind him. "I'm not that far gone."

Bodie found himself following Doyle in the direction of his bedroom. "You're staying the night?"

"If you'll have me." Recognising his double entendre too late, Doyle swung round at the bedroom door. "I didn't mean that - "

"You made that plain last time," said Bodie, an edge to his voice. "Why did you come here tonight?"

" - the way it sounded," continued Doyle, as if there had been no interruption.

"No?"

"No. As for why I'm here, I'd like to wake up with you next to me." Without waiting for an answer, wary of what it might be, this not in accordance with their unspoken agreement, Doyle entered the room, set his mug down on the floor beside the bed and began to remove what little clothing he was still wearing.

"I won't be up to much," Bodie warned him, knowing that to be a lie as he watched soft cotton descend, his eyes on the supple lines of Doyle's spine, lingering hungrily on the delectable curves appearing as Doyle stepped out of his briefs, his skin golden brown in the soft light, the down on his forearms and legs tinted auburn, forming a hazy nimbus around him.

"There's more to you than a good screw," said Doyle matter of factly as he folded his slacks over a chair back. "The trouble is, I sometimes wonder if you would say the same about me."

"You want me for my mind?" Even to Bodie his flippancy held a jarring note.

"I want you, period. All of you."

Unwilling to sustain that steady-eyed gaze, Bodie shrugged out of his towelling robe and got into bed. "And I want you. Where's the problem?" 

"You don't think we have one?" Doyle sounded no more than curious.

"Come off it, Ray. I know I came on a bit strong the other night but - "

"Christ Jesus! You think that's what I'm talking about?"

"Until just now, yes," lied Bodie, avoiding his partner's eyes. "The idea of being fucked doesn't turn you off, then?"

"No. But not tonight - I've got a headache," Doyle added wryly.

"You never could hold your drink." Bodie relaxed now the potentially dangerous moment had passed. "Come to bed and drink your tea before it gets cold," he suggested prosaically, belatedly noting signs of nervousness, betrayed as much by Doyle's scowl as by his tensed muscles. "Did you have to get drunk to come round to see me?" he added against his better judgment.

"Christ, I _am_ an open book. I thought it might help - me, if not you. I would have been in touch sooner but I was still fuming after that public rollicking you gave me. I didn't plan to come round tonight but.. I wanted to see you. It's been a while," Doyle added with a hint of defensiveness, as if he felt obliged to justify the aberration.

"I noticed," said Bodie helpfully.

"I suppose you must have done. It was talking to Cookie that made me realise how much I was missing you. Cowley's got him working solo, so naturally he was wondering what it's like being teamed. He asked a few questions. Made me think."

"Blimey, that's always a mistake," said Bodie in heartfelt tones. Regretting his flippant offering of a basic truth where Doyle was concerned as soon as he had voiced it, he waited for his partner to react.

"Knew I shouldn't have come. Way I behaved last week..." Doyle shrugged, his face tired.

"I've heard the word no before. What pissed me off was you nearly getting yourself killed the next morning. I don't know what you were playing at, your mind certainly wasn't on the job."

"No, it was on us, what I'd said. I was wondering how I could put things right."

"You could have got us killed," accused Bodie, his tone unforgiving.

"D'you think I haven't had the chance to realise that for myself! I tried to see you when they discharged me from hospital but Cowley had you on this bloody stakeout and... I lost my bottle." Realising he was pleating the sheet, Doyle tucked his hands from sight, wishing himself a long way away.

"Am I so intimidating?"

"When you put your mind to it - particularly when I know I'm in the wrong. Still, you did me a favour going on at me like that. The Casualty nurses were ever so sympathetic." Doyle's smile faded when it was met only by Bodie's stonily unamused profile.

"It was no more than you deserved. If you can't keep your mind on the job we'd better pack this in. I'm too young to die."

"Switch it off like a light, you mean?"

Aware he had gone further than he intended, Bodie gave him a sour glance. "No, I bloody well don't. Stop being thick." He gave a weighty sigh, abruptly conscious that he was tired. "Look, I know you'll happily pick over the bones for what little's left of the night, but I'm knackered. Get some sleep and stop worrying. Take things as they come, it's the only way."

Feeling the empty place within him widen, Doyle nodded. "You could be right." He didn't believe a word of it and he doubted if his partner did, for all his seeming confidence, but in the face of Bodie's deliberate obtuseness he could go no further alone, already more exposed than he cared for.

"I always am. What time have you got to be in tomorrow?"

"It doesn't matter much, I'm only running errands."

"Good, I needn't bother with the alarm. Sleep tight." A possessive hand cupping Doyle's flank, Bodie was asleep within five minutes.

After an increasingly restless hour, Doyle slid out of bed, dressed and scribbled an excuse to Bodie before letting himself out of the flat. Bodie, who could hear a feather float at fifty paces while on duty, slept on.

It was only when he stared down the deserted road that Doyle realised that five- fifteen on a November morning was not the best time to expect to find a taxi cruising the streets. He turned up his jacket collar and glanced up at Bodie's darkened window, debating whether or not to go back. Because there didn't seem to be any point, he began the walk home, moving with an easy yard-eating stride which gave no indication of his unhappy mental state.

While their relationship had changed, he and Bodie seemed to want very different things from it. Neither of them was famous for their emotional commitment with sexual partners but Doyle had already admitted that for Bodie he would make the effort to change. He had gone beyond the stage of being scared by the idea of wanting to settle down. It wouldn't be easy but he was prepared to work at it. Unfortunately, Bodie was showing signs of putting the same amount of effort into resisting the idea of any ties in his life.

Perhaps it was only to be expected. His years in CI5 were the most settled portion of Bodie's adult life; he was betraying all the signs of incipient claustrophobia. It scared Doyle because he had no idea how to combat that, instinct insisting he stake his claim.

I've got to stop crowding him, give him the space he needs - if I can. And if I can't?

Preferring not to contemplate what his failure would mean, Doyle spurted into a run, hoping to leave the thought behind him.

oOo

When he arrived at the flat Doyle had been allocated during the duration of the Rahad operation, Bodie felt increasingly aggrieved that Doyle was failing to co-operate with his plans for the evening. Every time he looked up it was to find Doyle watching him with something very like fear in the back of his eyes. If Ray had taken in more than five minutes of the match Bodie would have been surprised, since it finished Doyle had been on the prowl.

"What's bothering you?" asked Bodie eventually, setting down his empty glass and propping his feet on the coffee table. "Is that tooth giving you trouble?" He experienced an unaccustomed twinge of guilt, wondering why he hadn't pulled that punch.

"No, though it's no thanks to you," snapped Doyle edgily, his attention on his right hand as he picked out a simple melody on the piano.

"Then what's up?"

Abruptly the music stopped, Doyle slewing round on the piano stool, his expression angry. "I don't like you working undercover."

"You what?" His jaw sagging, Bodie stared at him in honest astonishment. "Why the hell not?"

"Because, damn it, I worry about you!" yelled Doyle before he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Bodie stared up at the ceiling in disbelief. One of us is cracking up, he thought, bemused. But he knew in his heart of hearts that wasn't true. Doyle cared. Sometimes it scared Bodie to admit how much Doyle cared. Not that he didn't guard Doyle's back. He even worried about him on occasion. It was only natural. But that's all. It was stupid to get maudlin about anyone in their business. This wouln't last. Nothing worthwhile ever did. Let anyone close and they'll tear you apart.

Doyle was already far too close for comfort, the weight of his unvoiced needs pressing heavily on Bodie, who preferred to travel light, neither seeking nor encouraging ties which would bind and which could ultimately destroy him. 

Aware that tonight there would be no easy conversation and uncomplicated, lusty sex, Bodie rose to his feet. Pulling on his sheepskin jacket, he called out his goodnights as he let himself out.

Still standing in the centre of the kitchen, the fingers of one hand curled tight in his palm, Doyle resisted the temptation to put his fist through the chic fittings.

Damn, you fucked that up a treat, he told himself tiredly. The trouble was, he didn't know what it was Bodie wanted from him, losing a battle whose rules he didn’t know; by the time he learnt them Doyle was afraid the game would be over.

oOo

Scorning the cold luxury of his flat, aware that Anna wouldn't be on his doorstep at dawn this morning, Doyle accepted Bodie's invitation to go home with him. Slumping onto a chair at the kitchen table, Doyle took little notice of what went on around him until a heaped plate of food appeared between his outstretched forearms where they were resting on the table top.

"A Bodie special this is, so get your laughing gear wrapped around it," commanded Bodie, sitting opposite him.

"Thanks." Fork in his hand, Doyle toyed with his meal, oblivious of the attention he was attracting.

Having cleared his own plate with a hungry despatch, Bodie viewed his partner's with covetous eyes. "Are you planning to eat that or just inhale it?"

"What?" Oh, have it." Doyle pushed the plate across to him.

"I worked bloody hard making this," said Bodie, his fork twirling expertly.

"Give me a break, all you had to do was pick up the 'phone."

"No. I made it. For you." Bodie eyed the silent figure with a trace of concern. Doyle was in a strange mood tonight, one he did not understand. It made him edgy, accustomed to being able to account for his partner's highs and lows with relative ease.

"Thanks."

"You don't believe me?"

"It has an unlikely ring to it, doesn't it?" returned Doyle, a mocking expression on his face, but who he was mocking Bodie could not tell.

"The job's going well," Bodie remarked, changing the subject. "All be over soon."

"Looks like it." Doyle's interest was obviously elsewhere.

"I suppose you'll be sorry to leave that flat - and Anna. Have you chanced your arm there?" Even as he asked, Bodie experienced a twinge of jealousy at the thought, women one of the many topics they had avoided discussing recently.

"No point, is there."

"I dunno," mused Bodie, striving for the nonchalant tone Doyle would expect to hear. "She must have the odd night off duty - and you're not exactly repulsive."

"Should I be flattered?"

Meeting that enigmatic gaze, Bodie became aware of the banked anger Doyle had been hiding so well. He pushed his plate away, no longer hungry.

"What's wrong?" If that superior bitch has turned Ray down... What the hell was he thinking? He was jealous because Ray had the hots for one of the most gorgeous birds he’d ever seen.

"Why should anything be wrong?" Doyle abruptly left the table to prowl around the kitchen before returning to stand in front of his still-seated partner. "I'll tell you what's wrong," he said suddenly, his voice roughened with the force of feeling he had been suppressing, "you playing dead this afternoon, that's what's wrong. Don't you ever do that again. It's not funny." A prodding finger emphasised the point.

"You seemed to think it was at the time," Bodie protested, although he knew that to be a lie. Doyle had managed a smile, had even found a snappy come-back, but his hand had been shaking, his eyes dark with shock as he crouched over him.

"What else was I supposed to do with bloody Cowley five feet behind me?" You bastard!"

Capturing Bodie's face between his hands, Doyle bent, his mouth hard and angry, demanding a response to his kiss. The chair, with Bodie still seated on it, was jarred a few inches across the tiled floor by the vehemence of Doyle's movement.

"Don't," Doyle repeated, a catch in his emotion-roughened voice, his eyes glittering, "do that to me again. Not ever."

"I won't," Bodie promised, seeking Doyle's mouth of his own volition, one hand tangled in the springy silk of Doyle's hair, his other at the zip of Doyle's jeans. "Come to bed, Ray. It's OK. Come to bed."

Doyle went. But Bodie's plan to take charge of events was short-lived, swept away by the frenzied passion of the other man, the need which drove them both to the edge of exhaustion before it was spent, leaving Doyle tangled around him, slick with sweat and too drained for speech.

Holding him close, Bodie licked the moisture from Doyle's temple and cheek before easing him onto the pillows and drawing up the covers. He found it difficult to credit that he had been swamped so totally by the ten and a half stone bundle of exhaustion in his arms and incredible that he should have allowed it to happen. He did not think to question his complaisance.

"Bloody 'ell, Ray. I promised I wouldn't do it again." But there was no protest either on Bodie's smiling face or in his voice.

Doyle pulled away a little, one arm over his eyes. "You OK?"

"More than that. I'm not saying we should work at that pace all the time - don't think I could," Bodie added with engaging candour, "but... I'm fine," he amended gently, unwilling to tease his vulnerable-looking mate. "You look like death warmed over. All hair and eyes."

Doyle's love-swollen mouth curved in wry acknowledgement. "Think I died about five minutes ago. I don't remember coming to bed." He glanced round at his surroundings in faint surprise.

"You had other things on your mind. Me," Bodie added with a poorly concealed satisfaction. His smile faltered when Doyle's head turned on the pillows and he saw the expression in the still dazed-looking eyes, shying away from it.

Recognising that withdrawal, Doyle's mouth thinned, the muscles of his face tightening.

"Are you staying the night?" asked Bodie, unconsciously abrupt because he needed to fill the silence.

Hearing only rejection, Doyle sat up. "No. There are a few things I should be doing at home." It occurred to neither man that one-thirty in the morning was an unlikely time to start doing any of them. On his feet by this time, Doyle collected his scattered clothes and dressed with every appearance of ease.

Tempted to drag him back to bed, cuddle close and be damned to the consequences, Bodie stilled the impulse. He needed time to himself, time to regain his equilibrium and pretend he had not seen the hurt on that unguarded face. Love's for the birds, he reminded himself as he watched Doyle pull on his boots.

"I'll see you tomorrow. We're going to have a busy day if we're going to nobble Rahad," continued Doyle, his back to the man in the bed. "Sleep tight. I'll let myself out."

"Fine. You too, mate. I'll pick you up at seven-thirty." Bodie's gaze remained on his partner until Doyle left, staring blankly at the door thereafter, listening to the silence.

oOo

"OK, OK," said Doyle, as they stood in the queue at the take-away, their brief flirtation with a life of luxury behind them as of four hours ago, "I know Rahad was an arrogant prick but it's not like you to take on so."

"You weren't the one who had to watch yourself being cheated. And by rank amateurs, that's what really hurt."

"Oh, the poker game. Pride goeth before a fall, my son." Doyle failed to subdue his unsympathetic grin.

"Really? If you'd ever paid up all you owed me over the years you'd be destitute."

"A gambling debt isn't a legally enforceable contract," intoned Doyle piously.

"I'll enforce you in a minute," Bodie promised the smiling face without heat. "Next time you want to play battleships you'll find out where you can stuff 'em. I'm a bloody good poker player and you know it."

"I don't dispute that. The thing is, you're an even better card sharp."

"You noticed?" Bodie was a trifle put out.

Doyle gave him a pitying look and shoved him towards the counter. "Why do you think I stopped paying you your winnings?"

"Because you're tight-fisted."

"Apart from that," said Doyle, unruffled by the familiar slur. "D'you want any prawn balls?"

"Know whose I'd rather have," Bodie murmured in a sultry tone, edging a little closer behind him.

"Well, start with these and we'll see what else is on offer," said Doyle before he placed their orders with the bored-looking woman behind the counter. "Where are we going, my place or yours?"

"Mine," said Bodie, having a preference for being on his home ground, perhaps because it gave him the illusion he was in control. "On one understanding..." Doyle gave him a questioning look. "I don't enjoy finding myself with an empty bed halfway through the night," Bodie continued, knowing his voice was too low to carry beyond the man in front of him.

About to remind Bodie that it hadn't been his idea to leave, Doyle paused. It wasn't exactly an apology but it was the closest Bodie was likely to come to one. Besides, Bodie was in the right of it. Living in someone else's pocket wasn't a good idea. He'd spent too much time worrying about Bodie and himself and not nearly enough thinking about the job. One day at a time, he reminded himself. It'll sort itself out.

"I'd be more flattered if it wasn't for the fact you get chilly around four in the morning," he remarked, fishing out his wallet as their order arrived.

"That's not the only reason," muttered Bodie against his better judgment as they left the take-away.

The damp, cold air made them hurry to the car, which was parked about a hundred yards down the road. Doyle did not pursue the point, merely shivering in an exaggerated fashion as Bodie fumbled for his car keys whilst trying to avoid clasping the overfull carrier bag of food to his chest.

"Thanks for your help," said Bodie ironically once they were inside the car.

"Think nothing of it. Who did Cowley pick to escort Rahad to Tehran?" Doyle added, blowing on his chilly digits.

"Lucas and McCabe."

"That's one foreign jaunt they're welcome to." A clean kill was one thing, legalised murder was something which made Doyle uneasy - most of the time. He was afraid of losing that unease, afraid of what he might be turning into.

"I shouldn't waste much time feeling sorry for Rahad. But maybe there are worse fates than losing at poker," Bodie conceded as Doyle just looked at him.

"Your cold feet at four in the morning, for one," agreed Doyle, slouching down on the passenger seat. "Maybe you've got bad circulation," he added, one hand on Bodie's cord clad thigh.

The deliberate provocation of the remark, allied with that undemanding contact, erased the last trace of awkwardness between them, the remainder of the journey occupied by Bodie's hot denials of the allegation.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

 

Christmas passed CI5 by, unremarked except for the difficulties experienced by those agents with outraged families and lovers to pacify, outsiders to the Squad failing to appreciate that some jobs did not permit a break for seasonal good cheer. They were five days into the new year before Bodie remembered as much. He crawled into his sleeping bag located in the shed housing the empty sheep dip tank; shivering, he decided not to wake up the exhausted huddle that was his partner to tell Doyle. Somehow he felt Doyle might not appreciate the knowledge.

oOo

With no fondness for jargon, Cowley wore a constant frown as he read the various assessments, wondering how many more imprecise terms he would have to endure. Burn-out, indeed. For all his scorn, it gave him no pleasure to note the marked increase in stress levels amongst his most experienced agents, whether those who worked solo, or those who were teamed. Aware that the demands made on his people had increased sharply over the last few months, he was unsurprised by the recommendations made by Crane, Macklin and Doctors Ross and Henderson. He would have liked to be in the position to act upon them; unfortunately that luxury was not open to him. Shortage of man-power had been a problem since the day of CI5's inception. While it wasn't difficult to find agents suitable for the B Squad, finding staff for the A Squad was a different matter. Expensively-trained and highly-skilled, they were almost impossible to replace. It became necessary to do so far too often, injury, if not death, taking its toll. Few of the A Squad would contemplate reassignment to the lower call-out grade if their injuries were such that they lacked the requisite level of fitness for their previous job. While he understood their point of view, it did nothing to ease Cowley's problems when CI5 lost their services altogether.

Picking up one slim folder, he gave a nod of satisfaction. Cook was shaping up well. The only drawback was his marital status, which restricted him to the B Squad. Tempting as it was, experience had taught Cowley it was a rule best adhered to for the safety of all concerned. The emotional entanglements of his unmarried staff wrecked enough havoc without watching marriages break up under the stresses CI5 imposed - or worse, an agent die because their mind had been on other than the job in hand.

Cowley's attention turned to two thicker, cross-referenced files, his expression of satisfaction fading. Bodie and Doyle were the undisputed top team, and thus allocated the toughest assignments. Every report concerning them recommended either a lengthy holiday or a reduction in high-stress work. Even worse was Ross's warning that all the indications pointed to the fact that they had entered, or were about to enter into, a sexual relationship.

Cowley's mouth thinned with displeasure. It would be just like the pair of them to experiment out of boredom, without a thought to the adverse publicity their liaison could attract, or the risk - always high in Intelligence work - of blackmail. What was worse, he couldn't shrug off Ross's predictions, having the suspicion she was correct.

While he did not believe any sexual relationship between the two men would last long, given their record of infidelity and heterosexuality, Cowley was eager that they should return to a more orthodox means of sexual gratification - one which would not rebound on CI5.

He had planned to send Murphy undercover to suborn Billy Squires's ex-girlfriend, given her weakness for handsome, dark-haired men. Bodie would fit the bill equally well. He could take up the assignment as soon as Miss Grimason returned from her skiing holiday. Until then he could assist Doyle, who would be given charge of the stakeout in Pimlico. That way both men would have a few days away from the firing line. Confident he had solved that particular problem, Cowley turned to the next file, a frown soon back in place as he found another set of problems. 

oOo

Called in at half-past eight for what looked like a lengthy surveillance job, Bodie and Doyle settled down to the undemanding task without too much complaint. Relations between them more relaxed, and the central heating in the flat they were occupying working with unusual efficiency, they spent their twelve-hour stints of duty in easy conversation and comfortable silences.

"Have you ever thought about settling down?" Doyle asked out of the blue, on the afternoon of the fourth day.

A hollow opening up inside him, Bodie concentrated on unwrapping his sandwiches and told himself the sensation was due to hunger. "I can't say I have. Why?"

"I just wondered. You never talk about the future." Doyle's attention remained on the sleety landscape outside the net curtained windows.

"Whose?"

"Yours, of course." 

"I don't talk about it because I don't think about it." Bodie's voice was muffled as he took a determined bite out of his sandwich. "Live for today for tomorrow - "

"Blimey, you're in a cheerful mood." Gaining no response, Doyle glanced at him. "You aren't joking, are you?"

His mouth full, a curious constriction in his throat, Bodie shook his head.

"That's what I thought. I used to believe I'd settle down, maybe even marry, have kids. You know, the whole bit," mused Doyle, his attention back on the terraced house across the road.

"But you don't any more?" asked Bodie with caution, half-eager, half-terrified to hear what Doyle might say next. Stakeouts gave Doyle much too much time to think.

"Are you kidding? It might have taken a while but I finally grew out of it. You've got the right idea, mate. There's no point in thinking about what's never going to happen. Who'd want to settle down with me?" There was a trace of disillusion in the quiet voice.

"Now who's being cheerful?" demanded Bodie, moving to sit next to him, unhappy at hearing his own philosophy on his partner's lips.

"Realistic, that's what I'm trying to be. Better late than never, eh? Is that Hughes coming up the alley? It bloody is! Call Father."

Bodie was already on the RT to Cowley, the interlude lost in thirty minutes of waiting while the adrenalin built, the ten minutes of gut-churning activity and twelve long hours of interrogations.

 

"Ugh, fanatics," said Doyle with loathing when they were finally free. "They scare me, Bodie. I don't care which side of the political fence they sit on, or what their bloody cause is, they scare me."

Nodding, Bodie steered him out through the swing doors and into the car park. The sky was clear and star-filled, the cold a biting force, leaching body warmth within seconds.

"What did the Old Man want to see you about?" added Doyle, unlocking the passenger seat door because he took it for granted that Bodie would be accompanying him.

"The next assignment."

"Doesn't he ever let up? When do we start?"

"Tomorrow. But he's been generous, he doesn't want to see me till eight o'clock."

"Gosh, a whole five hours sleep. He's spoiling us," remarked Doyle, driving with care along the gritted roads. "What's it about?"

Gaining no answer, he discovered Bodie had taken advantage of the fact he was sitting down to grab some sleep, a technique all agents had to acquire if they wanted to survive the pace. Giving a resigned sigh, Doyle drove them back to his flat, resuming his interrogation as they undressed and he could be certain Bodie was awake.

"What's Cowley got lined up for us this time?"

"Not us, me," said Bodie with reluctance, knowing Doyle wasn't going to like it. He couldn't pretend he was wild about the idea himself.

"Eh? How come?"

"Because even in these enlightened times this is only a one man job. Gloria Grimason, ex-girlfriend of laughing Billy Squires. Cowley wants her co-operation to help put the porn king down. She's partial to beautiful dark-haired men, so naturally the Cow thought of me. I'll be working nights for a while," Bodie added without emotion as he sank onto the mattress.

"I thought he'd allocated her to Murph?"

"So did Murph," replied Bodie colourlessly. "I'm not his favourite person at the moment."

"That makes two of us. Didn't you ask Cowley why you'd been switched?"

Bodie gave him a look of disbelief. "Not feeling suicidal, no, I didn't."

"So you agreed to do it - just like that?" Jeans in one hand, Doyle turned to stare at his horizontal partner.

Bodie shrugged. "I didn't have a lot of choice."

"No? Afraid your seduction technique might be rusty? Or has the novelty worn off already?" enquired Doyle, his tone dangerously mild.

"For chrissake!" protested Bodie, guilt making him edgy. "It's close to four in the morning and Cowley wants to see me at eight. Can't we talk about it later?"

"You don't think there's anything to talk about," recognised Doyle.

Relieved Doyle was taking it so well after a bumpy start, Bodie shook his head. "Nah, it'll only be for a few days."

"Course it will," agreed Doyle, an odd note in his voice had Bodie been alert enough to hear it. "So we carry on as before when you get back?"

"Of course," murmured Bodie drowsily. "Come to bed, Ray. It's late, it's cold and - "

" - you want to warm your feet up," completed Doyle, sliding under the duvet.

"That's right. 'S nice to feel wanted, isn't it? Night."

A bitter twist to his mouth, Doyle stared at the indistinct blur that was his partner.

oOo

For the first time in some weeks work had slackened off, the rest room packed as everyone congregated there to catch up on the gossip, each man trying to outvie his neighbour. Inevitably Cowley's most recent, if temporary, recruit for the Rahad operation attracted considerable comment.

"Must have been wasted on you," complained Benny mournfully from where he sat sprawled on the only comfortable chair the squad room boasted. "She was one classy lady."

"How would you know?" returned Doyle.

Benny gave a disgruntled sniff. "I don't for certain. Anything looks good when you're crouched in the bushes hoping some damn great dog doesn't pee on you." He didn't enjoy back-up jobs, particularly those which meant he had to watch others less deserving - namely Ray Doyle - living in the kind of luxury he would like to grow accustomed to himself.

Doyle's face assumed the expression of a man with some happy memories. "She was classy all right. The whole set-up was."

"I don't see what's so classy about being a whore," snapped Lewis. "I've never had to pay for it in my life."

"The department paid for Anna," said Doyle, basking in the envious looks he was receiving from the others present. But you're wrong, he thought, his absent gaze on the thickset agent, everyone pays, one way or another. Nothing comes free.

"Ignore him," Bodie advised the room at large. "The closest Ray came to paradise was in a wet dream. Mind, whatever Anna charges, she looked like she'd be worth every penny."

"And then some." Doyle's tone was that of a man who knew.

Bodie's snort of derision carried a lack of conviction even to himself. He had seen Ray and Anna together, his imagination doing the rest.

Anson's attention divided itself between the partners, Doyle perched on the window sill, Bodie slouched against the wall. "You mean neither of you chanced your arm?" he asked, scandalised by their lack of initiative. "That's what come of sending in the lower classes. Breeding calls to breeding," he added modestly. Ignoring the jeers, he lit a cheroot, shaking his head in mock sorrow.

"Not at all, my son, merely prudent," corrected Bodie. "The Cow was the one who escorted her home, isn't that right, Ray?"

"So you told me."

The bite in Doyle's voice drew several glances before it was dismissed as no more than Doyle in one of his moods.

"Yeah," continued Bodie as if he had noticed nothing amiss. "It was embarrassing being cut out by the Old Man. But I suppose it was inevitable. We're hardly likely to run into Anna at the Red Lion."

"Not that bloody club of Cowley's," groaned Murphy.

"Got it in one."

As the conversation became more general, concerning real or imaginary encounters of the intimate kind, Bodie glanced around. Doyle stared through him and engaged Jax in conversation. Finding it increasingly difficult to keep a grip on his temper, Bodie concentrated on what Murphy was saying.

"... money well spent."

"You couldn't afford her," scoffed Lucas.

"Nor could I," admitted Benny, "but I wouldn't mind saving up for her."

"I've - "

" - never had to pay for it," finished a ragged chorus of voices, drowning out a too predictable Lewis.

"I sometimes wonder if you've ever had it," added Doyle.

"Underpaid, that's our trouble," cut in Bodie before Lewis could react to the venom in Doyle's voice. He wondered why he was bothering, he wouldn't get any thanks for it. Since he had completed the Grimason assignment he'd seen virtually nothing of Doyle, Cowley keeping them at opposite ends of London, if not the country.

"You'd need a mortgage to be able to afford a lady like Anna," pointed out Jax, marriage yet to dull his enthusiasm for the finer things in life.

"Not at this rate of interest," said a glum-looking Cook. "Don't get married fellas." His air of gloom was ignored, his blissful marital state too well-publicised.

"I won't," Murphy promised him.

"Jilted again," sighed Benny, batting his eyelashes.

Murphy ignored him with the ease of long practice. "It occurs to me that as representatives of Cowley's finest we owe it to him - and ourselves - to ensure we're prepared for any and every situation we may encounter while on duty."

That astonishing pronouncement was met with a blank silence.

"That is Murph sitting there, isn't it?" asked Lucas weakly, taking a reviving sip of tea.

"Large as life and twice as ugly, yeah, that's Murph and I think he's finally cracked," said McCabe.

"Not me," he assured them with a lazy grin, stretching out his long legs.

"Sounds like it," said Lucas frankly. "You don't seriously imagine you'll be able to con Cowley into paying for you to have it away with the luscious Anna?"

"Some of us," replied Murphy in lofty tones, "rely on subtlety to make our way in the world. No, I'd just..." Floundering when he ran out of inspiration, he changed tack. "I believe it's our moral responsibility to experience all life has to offer. That includes the high life. We don't get nearly enough of that," he added wistfully, winning a chorus of agreement.

Bodie leant forward. "So what subtle plan have you got in mind?" He liked the rangy Cockney, not least because he knew his own Irish accent to be infinitely superior to Murphy's pathetic efforts.

"Why should I be the one to have all the brainwaves?" Murphy retorted, of the view he had done his bit.

"I dunno, hearing one from you would make a change," said Doyle, his cold gaze on the two very different dark-haired men, resenting the smile Bodie found for Murphy.

"You think of one for me," Murphy invited him. Recognising all the signs of Doyle spoiling for a fight, he refused to rise to the provocation.

There was an expectant silence while Doyle stared into the middle distance. Just as his audience was losing interest his expression brightened.

"I wouldn't mind a spot of decadence and luxury myself," he announced, aware he had just attracted Bodie's attention along with everyone else's. "Why don't we have a raffle?"

"What kind of a raffle?" asked McCabe with suspicion.

"None of us could afford to finance the kind of evening we've been leching about - the girl alone would cost about five hundred quid, maybe more. Depends how kinky you want to get," Doyle added with a wicked look, knowing they were hooked. He was warming to the idea himself, not least because of the closed expression on Bodie's face. "Everyone puts some money into the pot, say fifty quid, although the amount will depend on how many are interested. Winner takes all, the money to be spent on a night of decadence and sin. I've got a few contacts, I could give the Lady a ring, get an idea of the cost of all this pleasure so we can fix a price for the tickets. It won't be cheap. This is a night of luxury we're after, not the Pizza Hut and a grope in the car on the way home."

Eight excited voices began to speak at once, Lewis stomping out of the room and Cook finding himself nominated treasurer on the grounds he would have no vested interest in the outcome of the raffle.

Satisfied, Doyle left them to it, aware that virtually every unmarried man on the Squad would want in on this; most of the married ones, too. Only swans mate for life nowadays, he reminded himself, his resentful gaze on his partner.

Under the cover of various heated conversations going on around them, Bodie turned to him. "You fancy the idea of a change so much?"

"Why not, or are you the only one allowed? I wouldn't object to a spot of luxury, are you telling me you would?" Save for the cold glint in his eyes there was nothing to betray Doyle's mood.

"Depends who it's with," said Bodie, sounding unconsciously wistful.

"Oh?" Doyle's unforgiving gaze travelled over him. "You must have enjoyed your time with Gloria, then. How is she?"

"I couldn't tell you. You know bloody well she was just a job. It finished the moment I got those names out of her. You know that," Bodie added softly.

"Do I?" Renewed bitterness swept over Doyle when he thought of the evenings he had spent waiting by the telephone in case Bodie could fit him into his busy schedule. Bastard. Though he didn’t know why he was being so dog-in-the-mangerish. It wasn’t as if they’d made. They’d never really talked about it, just used each other and gone their separate ways. Separate beds, separate lives. It wasn’t enough. Not any more.

His face set, Bodie straightened. "Now isn't the time or place to discuss this."

"Oh, you mean we're going to talk to each other? That'll make a nice change." Although Doyle had been expecting it, it still hurt when Bodie left, his departure unnoticed by anyone save himself.

 

Bodie paused by his car, shivering as the heated turbulence of his emotions met the damp February air. He had small liking for emotional scenes at the best of times and no intention of being Doyle's whipping boy just because Cowley had assigned him a routine job. Fumbling to unlock the car, he slid inside, misery in his eyes as he waited for the heater to do its work. He had to admit, the Old Man's timing had been lousy. But what did Ray expect him to do, refuse? Tell Cowley why? Since his return with the required information and innumerable hairs from Gloria's Old English Sheepdog, relations between Doyle and himself had been - strained. Which was a tactful way of putting it.

More depressed than he cared to admit, he drove back to his flat. Finding it dark and lonely, he resolved not to permit Doyle to get to him. While what they had might not be ideal it worked and he wasn't going to allow Doyle to analyse it to death. In this life you took what you wanted or you went without. 

It was simply that he couldn't imagine being without Ray Doyle. And that scared him most of all - when it wasn't making him angry.

oOo

 

"Your tea, sir."

"Thank you, Betty." Putting down the report he had been reading, Cowley sat back in his chair. "Perhaps you can tell me what was going on out there."

"On, sir?"

"On," he repeated. "Sit yourself down and tell me what that noise just now was in aid of."

Recognising his look of determination, Betty gave a sigh and sat. "It was a draw for the raffle."

"Of what?" Cowley's expression sharpened, knowing some of his agents would sell Tower Bridge if they thought they could find a buyer.

"A night out, sir."

"You'd better tell me about it." His tone made the request a command.

Betty gave another sigh, aware Cowley was unlikely to approve. "Some of the men were talking the other week. In the course of the conversation it became apparent that most of them had never... Uh... the prize is a night out," she finished, her gaze fixed on the filing cabinet.

"With whom?" asked Cowley, frowning. In his opinion the last thing the members of his squad needed was encouragement in their social activities.

"I don't know her name, sir."

He wondered briefly if he could have missed any new member of staff capable of stirring such ribald interest in the bunch of worldly-wise cynics who worked for him. When he saw Betty's look of unease, he slid the plate of biscuits across to her. "Tell me the worst."

Abandoning her diet for the second time that week, Betty took a biscuit. "Well - um - do you remember Anna, sir?"

"Indeed I do." Cowley's expression relaxed. It had been one of the most pleasant evenings he had spent in a long while.

"Well, Doyle came in for a lot of ribbing over his association with her. Mostly envy, I think. But it sparked off a discussion and, to cut a long story short - " she took a deep breath, avoiding Cowley's eye " - it seems that only those men who've been in the Services have ever been with a... That is, they've never paid for... And then not with any degree of luxury. The raffle is to pay for the services of a - "

" - lady like Anna," completed Cowley, aware that Betty was in danger of tying herself in verbal knots. "Were there many takers for the tickets?"

She gave him an incredulous look.

"Aye, I can imagine," he murmured apologetically. "This - er - evening of entertainment. Is it to be spent in Anna's company?"

"Oh, no, sir," she assured him hastily. "But I think they asked her to recommend someone a little different. Men!" she snorted, half-indulgent, half-indignant.

Gathering he was exempt from her disapproval, Cowley was aware of a twinge of pique. Getting old, he reminded himself ruefully. "How different?" he asked, interested despite himself. He realised with a well-hidden trace of amusement that he had shocked her.

"I didn't ask," she replied primly. "They wanted me to make the draw. That was the noise you heard just now."

"Who won?"

"Doyle, sir."

"Whose idea was the raffle?"

"Doyle's. That's why there was so much noise."

Cowley nodded and paused to finish his tea. "When does he intend to collect his prize - presuming the others allow him to live that long?"

"The tickets were checked," she protested. 

Unconvinced that was any guarantee of 4.5's probity, Cowley gave her a kindly smile. "Quite. By Bodie, no doubt?"

"I don't think so. I haven't seen him around recently. Maybe he didn't buy a ticket. No, he must have done," Betty corrected herself.

Cowley gave her a thoughtful look. "Aye, of course he must." He made a mental note to keep an eye on Bodie and Doyle, while feeling optimistic that Anna's recommendation might be the final straw which would return that particular teaming to less troublesome sexual practices.

oOo

Bodie learnt of Doyle’s good fortune from a disgruntled Anson. Apart from an uninterested nod, Bodie gave no further reaction so Anson went in search of a more sympathetic audience. Bodie turned back from watching him leave to find Doyle behind him.

"I hear your planning paid off." Bodie was proud of his matter of fact tone.

"Seems like it," agreed Doyle, but he did not look particularly excited by the fact. "If you're finished here d'you fancy a pint?"

"We could make an evening of it, if you've got nothing else arranged," suggested Bodie, his tone as casual as Doyle's.

"Only a trip to the launderette." Pushing himself away from the door jamb, Doyle led the way down into the car park. "I haven't seen much of you for a while."

"I've been chasing round for Cowley, same as you, I expect. It seems a long time since we worked together."

"Too long," agreed Doyle, standing by his car. "Where do you want to go this evening?"

Bed. "Nowhere special. How about getting a take-away and some beer?"

"Fine. We can take it back to my place. There might be something worth watching on the box."

"I'll meet you there," said Bodie, hoping he didn't sound too eager.

 

Throughout the evening Bodie remained subdued, making no effort to eat more than his fair share of the meal and prone to long silences. Doyle, full of his plans for Friday night, arranged to borrow an evening shirt and tie from his partner as they sat with their feet up on the coffee table, beer cans in hand, watching a re-run of _Dave Allen at Large_.

"Mind, I don't want one of those ruffled jobs," Doyle warned, losing interest in the current sketch on the screen. "D'you want to watch the rest of this?"

"No. I'd best be off." 

Doyle gave him a look of astonishment. "I thought you'd be stopping over. I even changed the bloody sheets for you."

"Put like that, how can I refuse. But I thought..." Bodie took a deep breath and continued, "... that you might want to pack in this side of things."

His smile fading, Doyle left the sofa and, one hand tucked in the back of the waistband of his jeans, stood in front of Bodie. "No," he said simply. "Sorry about the fit of the moodies the other day. You were right. There's no point in brooding, life's too short. We both know where we stand now, don't we? Or should it be lie?" he added, openly cataloguing Bodie's charms.

A week ago Bodie would have been all over Doyle by now, but his confidence had been badly dented by the lurching realisation that he didn't want Doyle to take up his prize. More, he didn't want to waste his own time on some chance-come-by bird when he could spend it with Doyle. The unthinkable had happened, he had found himself actively planning for the future, a future spent with Doyle. Knowing he could never say so, Bodie's smile held a trace of sadness as his hands lightly grasped Doyle's shirt front.

"Maybe we should stay standing up. Save those clean sheets."

One hand settling over Bodie's left buttock, rubbing it gently, Doyle smiled, trying to gauge his mood. "You're worth a trip to the launderette. You comin'?" He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom.

"I certainly intend to do my best," replied Bodie flippantly, switching off the sitting room light as he followed Doyle from the room, his eyes on the flex and twitch of the other man's denim-clad backside. 

oOo

 

The front door bell rang as Doyle was sliding into his evening jacket; it was with some reluctance that he went to the door, suspecting who would be there.

On this occasion Bodie found nothing to say about his partner's appearance, unaccustomed to Doyle in evening dress. He looked unfamiliar, austere even, the stark formality of an evening jacket not suiting him as well as the soft silks and cottons he usually elected to wear. Then Doyle moved and the sensuality of the man inhabiting the evening clothes became apparent, overcoming Bodie's sense of unfamiliarity.

"You're going then," he said inanely, propping himself against the wall, his hands tucked firmly in the pockets of his sheepskin jacket.

"Who, me? Nah, thought I'd slip into something comfortable and pop down to the pub. Of course I'm going," snapped Doyle, heading back down the hall, knowing his fluttering nerves owed nothing to apprehension about the forthcoming evening.

"Why are you doing this, Ray?" His face stern, small stress lines were apparent around Bodie's eyes, an unhappy droop to his mouth.

Half-guilty, half-irritated, Doyle wheeled round. "Because I won the jackpot, that's why. And because I'd enjoy a touch of luxury for once. Tonight I'm going to have it." 

"With a hooker? You'll be paying for your pleasure, mate. Every synthetic gasp and pant."

Wholly irritated by now, Doyle's eyes travelled from Bodie's neatly shod feet to his impeccable crown. "Be cheap at the price. At least neither of us will be fooling the other that it's anything more. That honesty has its own kind of charm. That all you came round to say, is it?"

Bodie shrugged and sighed, aware he had begun badly. "No. I... Gloria was just a job. There's no reason for you to - "

"Now, hang on just a minute, I want to get this straight. What you're saying is that it's OK for you to fuck around but I'm expected to keep myself available for the nights you can't find anything better!" Aware he was in danger of betraying himself, Doyle swung away and for want of anything better to do began to check the contents of his pockets. Loose change, cheque book, handkerchief. Wallet... He began a feverish search along the bookshelves.

"What is it you've lost?"

"Wallet," said Doyle tersely, without turning.

Bodie spotted it sitting in the fruit bowl. "Here." Dangling it over Doyle's shoulder, he remained where he was.

Finding himself nose to nose with Bodie as he turned to take it, Doyle mumbled, "Thanks," and tucked it in an inside pocket.

Bodie couldn't remember having seen Doyle in a bow tie before. He decided it was a sight he enjoyed. That shirt suited him, too, he thought absently. Needing some excuse to touch, he fiddled with Doyle's tie, aware of the discreet, expensive hint of aftershave mixed with Doyle's own scent.

"There," he said, his fingers lingering. "You look wonderful, sunshine. Honest. She should be paying you. Have a good time, don't forget which fork to use and don't go turning into a pumpkin at midnight."

Bodie's smile doing the oddest things to him, Doyle nodded his thanks. "I won't. Look, I've got to go. I'm supposed to be collecting her at eight-thirty. Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

Bodie shook his head.

"How about a game of squash if we can get a court?" Doyle suggested, his tone ultra-casual.

"Sounds good. I'll try and book one this evening. Call round when you come to tomorrow, I'll be in."

Suspecting mockery in that accommodating acquiescence, Doyle looked up sharply but Bodie's handsome face told him little. "Fine," he agreed weakly.

"Have a good time," said Bodie softly, almost meaning it. One hand on Doyle's immaculately tailored shoulder, he brushed Doyle's just-parted mouth with his own before he left.

Staring at the closed door there was open bewilderment in Doyle's eyes before his expression changed. You dumb crud, he thought, his face betraying a mixture of hope, despair and tenderness as he ran a finger over his lips, what the hell did you go and do that for, Bodie?

 

The meal at the discreetly expensive French restaurant in Knightsbridge had been a total success, the partner Anna had recommended all she had promised.

Toying with her brandy glass, her caressing gaze on her companion's candlelit face, Miranda found herself speculating about her escort for the evening. He made a pleasant change from her usual client: young, good-looking in an unconventional way, British and possessing a sense of humour rather than self-importance and an expense account - heaven. He was a good conversationalist too, particularly once she had realised it was discussion, not agreement he sought. But he was still very tense, as if he found it impossible to relax beyond a certain point. She persevered, exerting her considerable expertise, and was rewarded as their meal wound its way to a leisurely conclusion when she saw him relax to the point where he stopped scanning the other diners and the entrance to the restaurant.

As she finishing her witty, if discreet, story about a Hunt Ball she had attended, Doyle's soft, earthy chuckle faded and he gestured to her empty glass. "Another?"

Miranda shook her head. "Not after that wonderful burgundy you selected. What have you planned for the rest of the evening, Ray?"

Looking up from the depths of his cognac, Doyle smiled. Not only beautiful but tactful too. "London beckons, if that's your pleasure."

Aware that a couple of clubs had been proposed should he be in the mood to try his luck with cards or dice, Miranda trusted her instinct. "Perhaps you would care for coffee at my flat?" Her fingers twined with his, finding the calluses on his beautiful hands - unusual marks for a civil servant.

"Just coffee?" Doyle mocked with a crooked grin, spurning the ego-saving pretence she was offering him.

She smiled up at him as he drew her chair away, the dry warmth of his palm in the small of her back an unexpectedly pleasant contact. "I hope not." She almost meant it.

His smile only widened, deepening the crease down one cheek. "That's a relief," he murmured, guiding her out of the restaurant and hailing a taxi.

To Miranda's surprise the taxi stopped just past Buckingham Palace. "If you won't be too cold, I thought we could walk through the Park from here," he explained. "Anna has vouched for me," he added when she said nothing.

"Oh, that's not the problem," she assured him, waiting as he paid off the driver. "It's a wonderful night for walking. I don't get home as often as I'd like to and I miss the country. It was just that not many of my escorts - " She paused, wary of being indiscreet. He wasn't the easiest man to read.

Unperturbed, he gave her a knowing grin. "I bet they don't. Are those shoes comfortable for walking?"

"You," she told him in heartfelt tones, tucking her arm into the crook of his, "are a treasure. They're fine."

 

It was one a.m. before they returned to her luxurious apartment, a trail of clothes marking their passage to the bedroom,

Her fingers drifting over the scars marring the tawny body sprawled on her champagne coloured sheets, Miranda was too wise to ask about their origin, having no wish to dispel the mood she had created. She had met only one other man with such watchful eyes and unusual scars. He had claimed to be a civil servant too.

His eyes brilliant with sexual heat, Doyle's mouth reluctantly left her breast. "Wonderful coffee," he murmured, his body giving an expectant pulse as her hand drifted down his belly.

Anna had certainly picked a winner here, he mused, confident enough to surrender the initiative to his hostess. This had been the most relaxing evening he’d spent for months. Even with Bodie he was tense. They were too used to competing to take it easy, he thought, sliding one hand up a silken-skinned thigh, the side of his thumb teasing damp softness before he sucked from his flesh the moisture he had collected - the sweet taste of a woman. 

It had been a while. He hoped he could last the course.

He gave a soft groan as her silky hair caressed his ultra-sensitive cock, her tongue flicking over the weeping tip. Abruptly Doyle's eyes opened, his expression distant as he remembered the very different mouth which had brushed his own earlier this evening, the wistful look in those dark blue eyes before Bodie had left. His hand stilled its expert caresses.

Oh, fuck it. Not now, not now, he thought feverishly, but the memory refused to go away.

Leaning up, he set his finger tips to her just-parted mouth. "Sorry, love. I don't think so," he croaked huskily, hardly believing he was saying this. His senses swimming, he was too aware of the hands cradling him, her mouth a tantalising breath away, waiting to please him.

Quick to sense his change of mood, Miranda's head rose before she released him to sit up in an exquisite swirl of red-gold hair.

"No problem," she said easily, one hand drifting to settle on his almost concave stomach, not quite touching the mute urgency of his bobbing erection. "What would you prefer - or shall I surprise you?"

Knowing how little it would take to finish him, Doyle placed her hand on the mattress before sinking back against the pillows, his face scrunched. "Would you believe to keep myself pure? I'm sorry to have wasted your time. It isn't you, it's me. We'll have to call it a night. I shouldn't be here." He took another dragging inhalation, trying to ignore the protest of his body.

Experienced enough to recognise this was not a game he wanted her to play, Miranda drew away, giving him the space he so obviously needed, making a soft sound of apology as she inadvertently brushed his flank. 

"You feel you should be with someone else," she recognised, her dispassionate tone helping to reduce the sultry mood.

"Yeah." The arm covering his eyes slid away as he gained a measure of control.

"This person must matter to you very much, you're hurting."

Still painfully aroused, Doyle made no attempt to deny the obvious as he slowly propped himself up on one elbow, too aware of the sensual slide of the satin beneath him. His cock gave a blind, pleading twitch. "Yes, they do." He hoped he didn't sound as confused as he felt.

Miranda eyed his half-averted profile with interest. "You didn't know?"

For a moment she thought he was not going to answer her then, courteous and very remote, his head turned.

"No, I didn't. Not how much. I certainly pick my time," he added, wryly amused but regretting none of it. For better or worse his commitment had been made. It had been made some time ago in fact, it had simply taken him until now to realise it. Wonderful timing.

"Then the evening hasn't been wasted," she said with a well-concealed relief. There were occasional complaints about value for money, particularly from those who expected refunds when they proved to be incapable.

"No," he agreed with a crooked smile of considerable charm as he left the bed. "Relax, no refund or green shield stamps expected. Bear with me, I won't keep you long."

The jiggle of Miranda's breasts as she brushed back a strand of hair did little for his equanimity. He gave an unconscious sigh as he stared down the length of his stubbornly insistent body.

"It isn't necessary for you to rush away. The facilities are at your disposal until morning."

The temptation to stay was almost irresistible. Self-denial wouldn't win him anything but blue balls and she was... Available. Having lost track of his one night stands many years ago, Doyle knew this wasn't what he was seeking. What he needed, Miranda didn't have.

"Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart. I'd never last the course. You're gorgeous and I must be crazy but you've got yourself a night off. Don't mind me if you want to make a private arrangement, I won't be long. I just need to - " He flicked a finger and thumb in the direction of the luxurious bathroom, which was a poem of turquoise mosaics and sybaritic delights, before heading off in that direction.

 

Doyle leant back against the closed bathroom door and stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall for some time before he pushed himself from that support. He padded toward the tousle-haired priapic image until he was close enough to touch it if he chose, searching his own face. Wry green eyes stared back at him.

"Must be bloody well mad," he murmured with resignation, before he stepped into the shower. Gritting his teeth, he turned the control to cold.

 

Doyle's first impulse had been to go home and sublimate like crazy. Mid-way through the journey he leant forward, giving the driver Bodie's address.

At two-thirty on a Saturday morning the chances of Bodie being alone were remote. He can only throw me out, Doyle reasoned, fidgeting uncomfortably, too aware of his body despite his time under the shower. Paying off the driver when he saw Bodie's car parked a few yards down the road, he slapped his finger on the door bell before he could change his mind.

"Bit late for a social call, isn't it," remarked Bodie, eyeing the dishevelled man on his threshold.

"A bit. You alone?" Doyle asked delicately.

"And palely loitering."

Taking that for an invitation, Doyle brushed past him. Following his partner into the sitting room, Bodie's expression relaxed into one of amused affection when he saw that Doyle had already abandoned his dinner jacket and tie; the shirt only half-fastened, Doyle's nipples were prominent against the fine lawn as he prowled around the room, picking up and discarding objects in his passage.

Marking his territory, recognised Bodie indulgently, aware that Doyle was exuding heady signals but wary of expecting too much.

"Shouldn't you be enjoying a life of luxury elsewhere?"

"I left early." Doyle stretched out along the sofa, heeled off his evening shoes and gave a soft sigh.

"Comfortable?" enquired Bodie, handing him a glass of Glenfiddich.

Doyle took an appreciative swallow, licked his upper lip and tilted one hand from side to side. "So so."

Having had the opportunity to study the seemingly boneless length of his partner in more detail, Bodie had become aware of yet another anomaly in Doyle's appearance. It puzzled him given Doyle's companion for the evening. Bodie concentrated on his drink, knowing that if he didn't he would be crouching down to cup Doyle's clearly defined sex with his palm, hungry for the sensation of the pulse and throb under his touch, heat to his heat.

"Why did you leave so early?" he demanded abruptly, his heavy-lidded gaze returning to Doyle's groin, his tongue unconsciously flicking across his lower lip as he stood over the recumbent figure. "Didn't you fancy her?"

"That's my Bodie," said Doyle, raising his glass in salute. "No working up to it in a subtle fashion but straight in there."

Bodie shivered - not with the cold. "So why?"

Draining his glass, Doyle set it down, shifting his leg in an attempt to ease the pressure on his constricted sex. "She wasn't you," he said simply.

Bodie's face closed. "And when did that startling deduction occur to you?"

"When she had her hand round my cock and was getting ready to suck me off."

The blunt evocative words made Bodie shiver again, his mouth watering, knowing too well how Doyle would have looked. "Afraid she wouldn't make a good job of it, were you?"

Doyle's face closed at that harsh response. "No. Experience was what was on sale - and she was good. But she wasn't you and I realised it was you I wanted. So I left."

"Fancied a bit of rough trade, did you?" Aware of the traitorous tightening of his body, Bodie's hands were rammed in the pockets of his towelling robe.

Making no immediate reply, Doyle studied the stubborn figure looming over him. It shouldn't be beyond me to recognise what he really wants, he thought distractedly. We don't have to slap each other down when all the time we want something quite different.

"I said - "

Trusting to instinct, Doyle shook his head and smiled. "Arrogant bastard. I heard you." He could see the edges of Bodie's robe parting, seemingly of their own accord, Bodie's cock making its statement. Gathering a portion of the robe in his fist, Doyle tugged with a gentle insistence, meeting no resistance as he drew Bodie down to him.

"Whatever you fancy," Doyle murmured, leaning up to lick the corner of Bodie's mouth, his free hand sliding knowledgeably inside the robe.

Bodie gasped, his knees sagging. "Wicked, you are," he mumbled, thrusting involuntarily into the warm palm. It slid away to cradle his testicles, offering a brief, encouraging squeeze, knowing exactly how much pressure he could bear.

"Jesus, Ray!" Bodie gave a grunt of frustration as he made little headway with the fly of Doyle's evening trousers.

"Buttons," Doyle told him, his hair brushing Bodie's over-sensitive penis as he bent his head to concentrate on the troublesome fastening.

"Undo 'em," Bodie commanded, his voice hoarse.

"'M going as fast as I can," growled Doyle, afflicted with ten thumbs and a massive hard-on. Abandoning subtlety, two buttons rolled across the carpet. Trousers puddling to the ground, he stepped out of his briefs and tripped over a discarded shoe.

Bodie saved him before he could injure himself, inhaling the scent of a warm, aroused Ray Doyle with open longing, his mouth hungry. "Bedroom's through there."

"Carpet's here," said Doyle, baring Bodie fully to his touch, the robe sliding away as they sank to the floor, each revelling in the strength of the other, their mouths demanding, their hands everywhere. It was no struggle for dominance, only to climax and they drove themselves fast and hard, coming in a dizzying frenzy which did little more than take the edge off their mutual appetite.

Becoming aware of a friction burn across his shoulder and the draught whistling around his backside, Doyle opened a rueful eye. "I could have been getting sucked in a jacuzzi instead of coming on your filthy carpet," he announced, squinting up at the centre light. His mouth curved as he felt a hand pat his now lax genitals.

"Was me you came on, not the carpet," said Bodie, tonguing him delicately, tasting the salt of sweat and Ray Doyle. "Besides, there's nothing which says you have to go elsewhere for a jacuzzi to get sucked in."

"No?"

"I can put the egg whisk in the bath."

"Cretin." Fingers coaxing Bodie's head to rise, Doyle caressed the skull beneath the skin, his hand slipping down to encircle the nape of the powerful neck. "Think I'll pass on that one. You said something about a bed?"

"Are you tired?" asked Bodie, fondly imagining his disappointment to be a secret.

"Not yet. Come on, you. I've got plans."

"What kind of plans?" Bodie allowed himself to be drawn to his feet. He shivered as a chilly palm settled over his buttocks, Doyle's fingertips caressing the more sensitive undercheek as they went into the bedroom.

"Depends," said Doyle, pausing at the bedside to hold Bodie's gaze with his own, "if you fancy the idea." His palms lightly cradled Bodie's buttocks while he waited for a reply.

It wasn't a new thought but the act was one they had yet to share, or even to discuss after that one disastrous evening. His cock making the choice for him, Bodie wondered why they had been so slow off the mark.

"I fancy it. I take it you've staked your claim to go first?"

"Initiative deserves some reward. We can toss for who goes first if you like." One hand on a broad shoulder, Doyle sought the now smiling mouth, seeking to coax rather than demand a response. Strong arms encircled him as Bodie's mouth surrendered before seeking in turn. One-handed, Doyle blindly relearnt the contours of Bodie's spine, his thumb slipping between the muscled cheeks to explore the damp cleft, tugging gently at the hairs there before rubbing the pad of his finger against the small knot of muscle which guarded the entrance to Bodie's body, smiling when he felt Bodie alter his stance to offer easier access. Doyle glanced up to find glazed-looking eyes studying him.

"You want to fuck me?" Bodie mumbled.

"Always knew you were a bright lad." Releasing Bodie's cock, Doyle sifted through the dark curls at Bodie's groin before exploring the hard planes of muscle on the almost hairless belly, enchanted with his mate's body.

"You're going the wrong way," Bodie felt bound to point out.

"Back seat driver. I'll be back," Doyle promised, tonguing the jut of a nipple, knowing that while it wasn't Bodie's favourite caress he wasn't averse to it either. "After I've made sure I haven't missed anything on the way."

"I'll remind you if you do," Bodie told him, tumbling them onto the mattress but otherwise content to leave the initiative with his husky-voiced seducer. "There's some stuff in the cabinet which should help us on our way."

Retrieving it, Doyle gave the tube a considering look. "I reckon it should at that," he agreed, rubbing a little between his finger and thumb, his eyes never leaving Bodie's face. "'S nice and silky. I'm trying to imagine this on me and me in you."

"Oh, you evil little sod," Bodie groaned. "I'm going to come listening to you."

"No, you're not," contradicted Doyle, taking a deep breath and settling the tube on the pillow next to Bodie. "For later. You're not in any hurry, I hope?"

Having been stroking whatever portion of Doyle was to hand, Bodie tried to look put upon. "Be all the same if I was, wouldn't it? Go on then, I'm in your hands."

"I know." Doyle's gleeful possessiveness made Bodie grin and give him a sudden, hard hug.

"You'll get your turn another night," Doyle told him severely. "Now, let's see, where was I?" Sinking back onto his haunches, his cock arching up against his belly, he sat studying the body displayed to such advantage against the dark blue sheets.

Becoming aware of every inhalation he took, Bodie turned his palm upwards in surrender. "Ray?"

A moment later Doyle was kneeling over him, his forearms framing Bodie's face. "I know," he said reassuringly, "but we're not going to rush this. All right?"

Bodie would have told him anything he wanted to hear. He couldn't remember a time when he had voluntarily surrendered control to a bedmate and the thought was oddly exciting. One hand laced in the healthy curls drooping down Doyle's neck, he gave a slow, sweet smile of acquiescence before nuzzling with open-mouthed care at Doyle's stubble-roughened jaw.

From such tranquil beginnings Bodie rapidly lost track of the sequence of events, drowning in sensation as Doyle clambered over him, intent on learning him with a thoroughness peculiarly his own. Unhurried, almost languid at first, it was a possessive charting of territory Bodie had neither the inclination, nor finally the strength, to stop. He was almost incoherent by the time the slickly anointed fingers slipped from him and he felt a different presence nudge his stimulated anus. He bit on the soft stuff of the pillow to stop himself from begging Doyle to get a move on. The prickle of hair on his back and buttocks returned, then the press of Doyle's erection as Doyle leant forward, brushing the nape of his neck with his mouth.

"I'll be careful," he promised huskily, shaking with the effort of holding back by now, his body tight-drawn and aching.

His face turning on the pillow, Bodie glared at him. "Just do it," he hissed, trying to grind down against the abrasive rub of the sheet. "For fuck's sake, Ray. If you won't, I will."

"Yeah?" Maintaining a precarious control over his longing to sheath himself in the lush depths of the body spread out with such trust beneath him, Doyle managed a somewhat desperate grin. "I want a ringside seat for that. Be the only man who could go fuck himself, that's for sure. Up a bit more, mate. Yeah, that's the way, that's... Christ!"

Doyle's breath caught when he felt Bodie contract around him, the tight channel massaging his achingly sensitive cock. Forcing himself not to thrust against the spasm, his coaxing hand settled around Bodie's penis, knowing exactly what rhythm to offer, gaining his reward when it rose to meet his touch once more. Doyle dared to move again only when he was certain Bodie was ready for him, almost sobbing with the effort the waiting cost him.

When he was taken in fully, their bodies joined, he made a sound low in his throat, mumbling obscenities as he struggled to give Bodie the time his body needed to accustom itself to the invader.

"Come on," grated Bodie, who had passed beyond the need for such niceties, arching up and back.

The world exploded behind Doyle's eyes, freeing him. Making a soft sound almost of surprise as pleasure burst along his nerve-endings, Bodie tensed and spasmed, his climax sending Doyle rocketing as he spent himself in his lover, certain his bone marrow must be pulsing from him. Collapsing over Bodie's broad back, he was aware of little else until he heard a wheezing protest.

Easing himself away, one hand soothing Bodie's flank, Doyle watched himself slip from his lover's body. Ridiculously moved, he nuzzled the downy hollow of Bodie's spine as the other man collapsed against the mattress.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?" Giving a ferocious sniff, Doyle flopped beside his partner, one hand over his eyes, the other on Bodie.

"You OK?" Gaining no response, Bodie found the energy to move, wriggling until his face was only inches from Doyle's. "Wasn't it all right or something?"

"All - ?" Doyle broke off what he had been about to say, his head turning on the pillow as he uncovered his eyes. "I've never... It's never felt... Being that close to someone." His hand tried to express what words could not, then sank back onto Bodie. "I dunno, beautiful, terrifying, fantastic. Thought I was dying at the finish."

There was a small silence.

"Knew I'd be good," murmured Bodie with satisfaction, but the usual insouciant note was absent from his voice.

"You weren't wrong. I'm the one who should be asking if it was all right."

"Stop fishing for compliments," said Bodie, rightly suspecting himself to be wearing a fatuous grin but feeling too good to care.

Brushing the dampness from Bodie's temples with the side of his thumb, Doyle hugged him close before releasing him. Bodie gave a contented grunt as he rolled onto his back.

Doyle shot up with a speed he had thought beyond him. "You hurt?"

Still looking a little dazed, Bodie shook his head. "Dunno. Shouldn't think so. I can't say it's worrying me. D'you suppose it's always that good?"

"I better make sure."

"Lie down and shut up," Bodie commanded lazily. "There's no rush. I'm fine - more than fine - and as the sheets are already ruined there's no point in worrying about them." Smiling up at the ceiling, he began to laugh.

"What's up?" enquired Doyle sleepily.

"I was just wondering what you're going to tell the lads about your night on the razzle. I mean, you can hardly tell them the truth."

"Yes, I can," contradicted Doyle serenely.

There was a surge of movement beside him. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I'll just tell 'em I won the jackpot," continued Doyle, smug at having caught his partner off-guard.

"Blimey, worth the thirty-five pounds for the ticket, was I?" said Bodie, impressed.

A sharp elbow poked him in the ribs in automatic reflex, but innate fairness made Doyle consider the question. "Put it this way, I won't be wanting a refund. Now shurrup and go t'sleep, 's late."

Content, Bodie did as he was told.

 

Bodie's contentment was short-lived. With morning came the memory of his surrender of initiative; it settled uneasily with his self-image, long-buried emotions demanding recognition.

Getting gooey-eyed over a good fuck is bloody stupid, he told himself as he left the snug bed to face the less-than-appealing day.

"What's the matter?" asked a sleep-slurred voice, Doyle blinking up at him. "Have we been called out?"

"No. I fancied a run."

Drowsy eyes moved from Bodie's self-conscious nakedness to the sleet hitting the window. "In that?"

"Why not?"

"Could always come back to bed," invited Doyle, his languid stretch sliding the duvet even farther down his body. He made no attempt to retrieve it, the temperature of the room tolerable even to sleep-warmed skin. "It's horrible out."

Bodie resisted the offer for a good three seconds before clambering back in next to him, having decided he could assert his independence later. Prepared to lavish all his expertise on his bedmate, he found himself submerged under caressing hands and a wickedly knowing mouth.

"Christ, you look good," murmured Doyle huskily. "Good enough to eat."

By the time he had tested his theory Bodie lacked the energy to put his own plans in action. The failure did not bother him unduly. It was difficult to resent being found irresistible.

Only when they had to part to ready themselves for the real world did it occur to Bodie how much Doyle was making the running. Share and share alike, he thought aggrieved, seating himself with care for his still tender backside.

Giving the surveillance job they were on enough attention to ensure they survived, Bodie busied himself concocting plans to sweep Doyle off his size nine feet and onto his back. He found his plans going awry more than once.


	3. Chapter 3

THREE

While he had been less than delighted with many of the findings revealed in the last batch of six-monthly assessments, Cowley had not ignored them, making the time to juggle assignments as best he could. He managed to give each person at risk a few days working on low-key matters. It was not, of course, a guarantee that they would remain out of the firing line but it was the best he could do given the demands on CI5's time and man-power. Nor had he forgotten the potential problem of Bodie and Doyle's liaison, keeping a close eye on that partnership. What he saw did not please him. Although he could identify no great change in their public manner to each other, he was in no doubt that Kate Ross's prognostications were correct. 

Bodie's short affair with Gloria Grimason had not proved to be the diversion Cowley had hoped for, monitoring indicating that the two men continued to spend most of their free time together. Cowley had no wish to speculate on what they did with it. Suffering from no personal sense of bias towards homosexuals or bisexuals, professionally he was wholly opposed to them - unless of course the agent in question worked for another Intelligence agency and their sexual preference could be of use to CI5. He had considered splitting Bodie and Doyle and either re-teaming them or using them on solo assignments. He refrained only because neither option was in the best interest of CI5.

Interrupted by the ringing telephone, Cowley's voice was sharp but there was a satisfied light in his eyes when he replaced the receiver. While he would have used Bodie and Doyle on this assignment anyway, it seemed to offer the perfect opportunity to split the team for a while. If he knew Doyle, he would make the most of the opportunities presented to him.

oOo

 

I must be crazy letting it get to me like this, Bodie lectured himself, knowing it was already too late, Jimmy and Annie were already firmly embedded under his skin. Must be my year for embracing lost causes. Jimmy with his broken neck and swollen tongue, his sister running back to Manchester, afraid of getting a face full of acid. Bloody waste of lives. What the hell kept them going? They had no chance, no future. They seemed to know it, too - accept it even. Not that Jimmy will be going anywhere but six feet under, poor little bastard.

Remembering the reminiscences Annie had offered, still haunted by her quiet resignation when she had identified her brother and the pathetic heap of his belongings, Bodie was scowling as he made his way through the thriving fruit and vegetable market. Ignoring the banter of the stallholders, he was interested in the sales pitch of only one vendor.

"'Ello, sailor. Couldn't resist me peaches, eh? What'll it be today?" called Doyle cheekily as he dealt with his current customer.

"A banana, not too ripe. Anything new?" asked Bodie when they were alone.

"Esther's doing the rounds again. That'll be eight pee, mate. And don't go nicking any grapes this time," Doyle added in a quieter tone. "The kids round here don't need you giving them ideas, they have enough of their own."

Bodie held out a five pound note, which Doyle gave a sour look but took. 

Lucky Esther, thought Bodie, bitterly aware of the twinkle in Doyle's eye and the spring in his step. He's been living with her for two weeks and he looks like he's settling down to play Happy Families for the rest of his natural.

"How are you getting on with her?" he forced himself to ask. As if it isn't bloody obvious.

Oozing with good-will to all mankind, even Bodie, Doyle grinned. "Terrific. No problems at all. Cowley picked a winner there."

"Oh, good," said Bodie, knowing his irony would be wasted.

"Oy, haven't you forgotten something?" called Doyle as Bodie turned away, becoming aware that his partner wasn't sharing his love of life at the moment. He tossed the banana over, wrapped in the five pound note. "You can owe me for it. See ya."

Ignoring the accompanying grin, Bodie viewed his supposed purchase before tossing it back and lifting a luscious-looking peach as he left. Taking a large bite from it, squinting a little against the rain which had started up again, he found the peach to be as deceptive as much else in his life recently, the flesh sleepy and slightly bitter. Tossing it onto the cobbles, there was a disillusioned droop to his mouth.

When I think of all the crap I took from Doyle when I had to move in on Billy Squires's old lady and here's Ray feathering his nest without a bloody qualm - and expecting me to approve. The randy little git's having the time of his life and making no attempt to hide the fact. Well, two can play at that game, sunshine. Only who do I make a play for, who do I want?

Doyle, he admitted, feeling depressed and hard done by.

In the event Bodie did nothing about seeking a bedmate of his own. Quite apart from the fact his time was limited, he had been out of circulation for some time, which meant starting from scratch. It seemed too much effort to win something he didn't particularly care if he had or not. He would have found their separation easier to bear but for the fact Doyle's absence seemed to colour everything he did, while Doyle gave no indication that he had even noticed how little time they spent together.

 

Doyle took Esther's case down to the waiting taxi, swamped by guilt when he realised he hadn't considered Esther's needs over the last couple of weeks at all, only his own. It wasn't until it had been time to pack up their make-believe home and he heard her voice shake that he'd been jolted from his blissful state of contentment.

Keeping the promise he had made to her, Doyle didn't wait to see her go but threw his case in the boot of his own car and drove off. Still feeling choked, he stopped the car at the end of the road, staring out through the rain-soaked windscreen. Only now did he understand what an insensitive prat he must have sounded, babbling on about getting back to the grindstone and Bodie - not that she knew all about Bodie, of course, he hadn't been that far gone - when to her their time together had come to mean more than a good cover for a job well done.

I didn't ask her to get involved. It was only a job. Seventeen days. It had seemed longer, almost as good as a holiday. Fun-loving, relaxed and oh-so-easy to be with, there had been no complications, no hassles, no hang-ups in living with Esther. And she's a bloody good copper. If Cowley has any sense he'll try and poach her - always presuming I haven't put her off CI5 for life.

I'm sorry, Doyle told the taxi which passed him.

He hadn't tried to win her - not consciously - but he had relaxed his barriers because it had been a long, long time since he had felt able to do that. They had talked about everything and nothing, the job, their hopes, fears, doubts, ambitions, regrets. Things he would have liked to talk about openly with Bodie - except Bodie wouldn't want that from him. With Esther he'd had normality, conformity with what society expected - a glimpse of a life he was unlikely to have again.

What I have is Bodie.

Getting the car underway, Doyle tried to imagine his partner's expression if he tried to hold his hand. His cock, no problem, but not his hand. No cuddling in the dark, holding one another just for the pleasure and comfort of it - or not that they could admit to. Rocks off and away that's our style. Not that it's all Bodie's fault, he conceded drearily, not knowing what he could do to make it any better.

 

"Give it a rest, I was there, remember," snapped Bodie, irritably conscious that even when Doyle was in this mood he could still ache for the ratty little bastard. "Diplo-bloody-matic immunity. It isn't the first time it's happened, it won't be the last. You should be used to it by now." He wished Doyle had taken him up on the offer to drown their sorrows at the pub.

"You're a big comfort, you are." Doyle continued to prowl around Bodie's sitting room, anything rather than focus on the contained power and understated beauty of the pale-faced man opposite him,

"I would have thought you'd had enough of that with Esther," growled Bodie.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" demanded Doyle, immediately on the defensive.

"It means I'm tired of you looking bug-eyed and mournful because the bird you were shacked up with for three weeks has gone home. That's what's really got to you, isn't it, that she left?" But Bodie knew Esther had been more than just a token bird from the short time he had worked with her; he had also recognised all the signs of someone suffering from a bad case of Doyle-itis. Ray, being his typical obtuse self, probably never noticed until the end, hence the overkill now to make up for it.

"You're jealous!" Doyle blurted out his discovery because it had taken him by surprise.

"What did you expect?" Bodie's face betrayed nothing, which in itself told Doyle something.

"God knows," sighed Doyle, aware of the tension knotting his shoulders. "I didn't mean to give her the wrong impression. I just, I dunno...forgot." Standing in the centre of the room, his shoulders and hair drooping, he looked contrite, confused and very tired.

Bodie gave an unwilling smile. "Try and remember next time, eh?" His hand in the small of Doyle's back, he steered him out of the room.

"Where are we going?" asked Doyle, feeling as if their conversation had been conducted on two different levels, neither of which he had understood.

"Bed." 

"Together?"

"They tell me it's more fun that way."

Doyle studied him for a moment and because he was tired, swallowed what he had been about to say. "They're probably right," he conceded, following Bodie into the bedroom.

oOo

The grey skies of March finally gave way to a late, grudging Spring. By May Summer had arrived, although few members of CI5 had the opportunity to appreciate it, going straight from one operation to the next and usually having to juggle assignments. Bodie and Doyle spent what little free time was available to them together, never discussing the decision but taking it for granted. While their life together wasn't that good it would be worse apart.

Bodie could never decide when the dream of living - to all intents and purposes - with Ray Doyle turned sour. He had lusted happily after his partner's body from day one of their teaming; that much hadn't changed, for all that he had come to know it intimately, with only one final intimacy left to hunger for. He wanted Doyle's arse.

Because it was easier Bodie focussed on that need, convincing himself that it was only a matter of time before he got to screw Doyle. We share everything else, why should fucking be any different? he reasoned.

It wasn't that Bodie objected to finding himself the object of Doyle's lust, although on occasion it could be a little overwhelming, Doyle on him before he had so much as unzipped his fly. The mechanics weren't important, all that mattered was that somehow Bodie always found himself losing the initiative. Even when they indulged in a frantic session of dry humping, desperate for each other and to escape the tensions of the day, Bodie felt as if he had surrendered. Yet it seemed churlish to protest when he was loved with such enthusiasm. It wasn't as if he had any complaints about Doyle's techniques - any of them - but the festering awareness of what he had never known began to grow in Bodie to the point of obsession, as if by concentrating on that he could block out the more complex emotional needs he preferred to believe he did not possess.

Bodie had tried to make his feelings on the subject apparent, but short of blurting them out couldn't seem to get through to his partner. Brute force was out because there was enough violence in his life already. He began to wonder if Doyle was being deliberately obtuse but that argument made no more sense than any of the others he had come up with. If Doyle had any hang-ups about the subject they certainly hadn't been apparent so far, he was ready and willing to try anything -usually on Bodie and with devastating results.

So why is it that I always find myself underneath? Bodie wondered with a bitterness which was exacerbated by the fact Doyle was asleep while he lay in the darkness worrying about it. He, who could sleep anywhere, any time, suffering from insomnia. His expression disgruntled, Bodie felt misunderstood and aggrieved, the more so because there was a small part of him which knew exactly what the real problem was.

It had nothing to do with who fucked whom - Doyle had only taken him twice, hardly excessive - and everything to do with the weight of responsibility Bodie felt when Doyle would suddenly stop a sentence midway, or look at him when he believed himself to be unobserved. After all these months together they should have been closer, instead the gap between them was widening. The growing void frightened Bodie because he knew he lacked the means to bridge it.

Impatient with himself for wasting valuable sleeping time, he turned with no regard for the man riding trustful in sleep against him. His shoulders hunched, the covers drawn up around his ears, Bodie ignored the movements next to him and the soft enquiry which told him Doyle was awake.

oOo

"So who is this Keller bloke?" demanded Doyle edgily, unnerved by the unfamiliar note in his partner's voice.

"A mate from the old days, I told you." For the first time in weeks anticipation was evident in Bodie's voice.

"Yeah, and he took a bullet for you. Very noble. Very bloody stupid, too."

"You'd rather I'd been hit?"

Air hissed between Doyle's teeth. "I'd rather no one had been in the position to get shot in the first place."

"Fine. When you've survived a tour of duty in Northern Ireland you can continue the lecture," snapped Bodie.

Despite himself he felt a pleasurable surge of warmth at the thought of seeing Jimmy Keller again. They'd been a good team, the best. And the one thing Jimmy had never been was complicated. That's what I need, a chance to unwind with an old mate. Get myself back on an even keel.

"And that's all you're going to tell me about him?"

"What do you want, his inside leg measurement?"

"Do you know it?"

"I do, as it happens. The same as I know yours," said Bodie, feeling pressured. Why did Ray have to talk every fucking subject to death? "We were partners for eight months."

"Is that all?"

"It was long enough."

Recognising the reminiscent warmth in Bodie's voice, Doyle scowled, taking an instant dislike to the unseen Keller. It flowered into a positive force once he met the man, mistrusting him on principle. It hurt that he couldn't fault the good-looking bugger. Keller knew his job and wasted no time in getting on with it, confidence oozing from him in much the same way as it did from Bodie. Watching the ex-partners together Doyle began to feel as superfluous as a prick on a brood mare.

 

Watching the stretcher, with Keller on it, being loaded into the ambulance, Bodie turned to the man standing at his side. "Aren't you going to say I told you so?" he asked bitterly, his disillusion complete. He could remember the time when he would have sworn he was as close to Keller as he was to Doyle now, and look how wrong he had been. Keller had used him and dumped him without a qualm.

"No point, is there," replied Doyle quietly, understanding something of his companion's bruised feelings and wanting to help. "He fooled me, too. He was good. One of the best undercover men I've met."

Rejecting pity out of hand, Bodie stared through his partner. It suddenly struck him that Doyle and Keller had a lot in common: looks, charm, nerve, and they were both past masters at using and discarding people to get a job done. It was one of the reasons Cowley used Doyle undercover so often. Doyle might mouth guilty platitudes regarding the innocents he had duped but it never stopped him from doing the same thing again. Using people was habit-forming.

"One of them," he agreed.

Bodie's meaning by-passing him, Doyle stepped closer. "Come on, I'll drive us home." He groaned when he heard Cowley calling for him, a sharp impatience in his tone.

"I'll take the car," said Bodie quickly. "I'll be at the hospital if anyone wants me."

Glancing back in the rear mirror before he turned the car out onto the road, Bodie could see Doyle still standing where he had left him.

oOo

His emotions hidden behind the pale mask of his face, Bodie watched his partner through incurious eyes, knowing Doyle would soon put the Molner affair behind him. He couldn't work out why Doyle was so outraged - Government agencies fighting amongst themselves or Cowley throwing them to the wolves were nothing new.

Maybe this time had been different. At least this time Cowley had debriefed them personally, finding time to mutter some gruff platitudes and pour them a large scotch before updating them on the events taking place behind the shootout which meant that their careers and lives were no longer at risk. All to be forgotten, until the next time. There seemed to have been too many next times, the scene feeling too familiar. Only Bodie's tolerance level had changed.

Feeling distanced from everything going on around him, he had reached crisis point and no one had noticed any change in him, not even Doyle. Somehow Doyle's failure didn't surprise Bodie. He expected nothing else by now.

With no one left to believe or trust in, not even himself, Bodie's inner core of certainty was exhausted. And that frightened him more than anything since the night as a confused eight-year old when he had heard his parents arguing. The arguments had been nothing new, but this one had been their last as they divided up the family assets. They had fought venomously for possession of the second-hand Morris Minor, the black and white television and the seventy-three pounds in cash. But the worst fight had been over who would have to take charge of their son. In the event his father had driven off in the Morris Minor, the seventy-three pounds in his pocket, leaving his common-law wife screaming abuse after him, one eye rapidly swelling, her nose still bleeding.

Dragged from one cheap bed and breakfast to the next, their possessions diminishing each time they left without paying the bill, Bodie learnt that he could never repay the debt his mother told him he owed her. But he had tried, struggling to adapt to her rapid mood swings which could sweep her from a clinging maternal solicitude to a swift backhander and ugly references to his father in five minutes. Constantly losing the battle to be whatever it was she wanted, Bodie had cut himself off and stopped trying - it was less painful. He had woken up in a seedy hotel in Blackpool on the morning of his eleventh birthday to find his mother had kept the promise screamed at him the previous night and abandoned him. Bodie hadn't seen her since - or lost his sense of failure for being unable to meet her emotional needs. At thirteen he had run away from the Home he had been sent to, running so far and so fast that the Truant Officer and the police had never caught up with him. He had been running ever since.

"Where are you going?" demanded Doyle, his voice jerking Bodie back into the present.

"Does it matter?" he returned and kept on going, the front door slamming behind him. He was halfway down the street when he realised Doyle was still at his shoulder. His mouth compressed, Bodie increased his pace.

"Are we going anywhere in particular?" asked Doyle some time later.

Bodie stopped so abruptly that Doyle had to retrace his steps.

"Why?" Bodie enquired with a silky menace that was wasted on his partner.

"Because if we're not, could we get there slower. These new boots are killing me," Doyle reported in a matter of fact tone.

"Boots?" echoed Bodie blankly.

"On my feet - or what's left of them. I wasn't expecting to take a two-hour hike tonight." Doyle's voice betrayed none of the anxiety he felt; Bodie had been in some far off place all evening, various tactics having failed to reach him.

"Two hours?"

"About that," Doyle agreed, shivering as some water dripped inside his jacket collar from his soaked hair.

"It's been raining that long?" Turning Bodie headed back the way they had come, suddenly aware of how cold, wet and tired he was.

"A while." Doyle leapt out in the path of a passing cyclist when he saw an unoccupied taxi and bundled his unresisting partner into it.

"You can't take your boots off in here," hissed Bodie, roused from his abstraction by the movements next to him.

"Bet me," invited Doyle, tucking his right foot up into his stomach the better to massage it.

Bodie shook his head. "They should put you in the circus, next to the dog-faced boy."

Doyle bent to examine his foot again. "I thought I was the dog-faced boy."

"Then why come with me?"

Picking up his soggy boot, Doyle glared at him. "To make sure you didn't mug the first old age pensioner you saw. Why d'you think? And don't just sit there, you dumb crud, pay the driver."

"Put your boot on, Cinders," Bodie advised him as he fished for change, but his expression had lightened even before Doyle stepped into the gutter full of water, that farce-like exchange keeping him going for a little longer.

oOo

But Bodie's slide into the depths had only slowed, not stopped. For the first time in his life he came to regard his periods off-duty as something to be feared, particularly when they came at night. The leaden march of those hours shook his soul in a way that the hours of the day did not. The days were easier. Demands were made of him then, quite apart from the routine functions of living. Concentrating on those stifled the insidious whisper that asked, "Why bother?"

He had always loved horror stories as a child - the more gruesome the better. He was learning that true horror owed nothing to the macabre. True horror came when something familiar became warped beyond hope of recognition.

Kate Ross tried to prod them into self-assessment in their six-monthly sessions with her. It wasn't a practice Bodie voluntarily undertook, experience having taught him to be wary of what might creep out of his mental woodwork. But drowning, not waving, the knowledge that no one had noticed how far out he had drifted ate into him like acid into metal.

Everything life threw at him seemed aimed at diminishing his self-respect. When he was depressed, Bodie ate, his mental state betrayed by the extra poundage which settled round his middle, and his bursts of irritability.

oOo

"You're out of breath, Bodie."

Staring at Cowley for a moment, Bodie swung away, not trusting his control. He hadn't expected a paean of praise for that desperate run to grab the canister of instant death before Lawson should spot him in the mirror but... What's the point? Accept it, your usefulness is over - until the next time. That's the way of the world. If you want a bone, go visit a butcher.

Shaking with a mixture of adrenalin, anger and hurt, Bodie changed out of his running gear in the back of an army Landrover, looking up to find Doyle standing a small distance away from him.

"Well done, mate. That was a nice piece of running. Smooth as silk."

"I've been faster," Bodie dismissed, resenting the placebo from his partner. His emotions perilously close to the surface, there was a moment when he was afraid he might bawl like a baby but his control held.

"I suppose it all made some kind of warped sense to Lawson."

Doyle's sombre gaze was on the mortuary van bumping across the sports field, the turf of which had suffered from the tank, lorries and Landrovers which had surrounded the area. The tank, squatting under a thick covering of decontaminate, looked like an unsavoury marshmallow, its deadly burden forever locked inside.

"I don't envy those with the task of getting rid of that," he offered, persevering in the face of Bodie's silence.

"Let someone else do the clearing up for once. I'm off."

"Sorry, sunshine. Not yet you're not. We've got to be checked out. We both handled the canister," Doyle reminded him.

"If it had leaked all the Home Counties would be dead by now. I've got better things to waste my time on."

"Such as?" demanded Cowley from behind him, his sharp tone betraying his own tension now the crisis was over.

Having heard Cowley's earlier comment and knowing the hurt hidden behind Bodie's sullen mask - would it have hurt the old bastard to tell him he'd done a good job instead of making that crack? - Doyle stepped in front of his partner, not for the first time in recent weeks certain what Bodie would do.

"Find a bog to take a much needed leak then sink a pint or two. We're clean. You don't need our reports and the experts will clear up here. We've had enough. Sir." While his steady gaze didn't waver, Doyle was braced for an unpleasant couple of minutes. He was saved from annihilation when a call came in from the Prime Minister.

"My office, seven-thirty tomorrow morning," said Cowley as he stalked off.

"That's a bit of luck," murmured Doyle, one hand under Bodie's elbow. "Let's go before they find another mad bomber for us to stop. I've had enough."

"Me, too," said Bodie, evading Doyle's grasp. "I'll see you tomorrow." Calling out to a passing sergeant, Bodie received a thumbs-up sign and a grin and jumped into the back of the slowly-moving Landrover.

Doyle glared after him. Well, fuck you, too, mate.

Still hyped-up with adrenalin, he drove back to his flat, changed and went for a run. But when showered and in a more mellow mood he telephoned Bodie's flat he received no reply. Nor did Bodie offer any explanation for his abrupt departure the following morning. Tired of creeping around Bodie's bouts of irritability, Doyle did not pursue the point. He was almost relieved when he turned up for work the next day to discover that Bodie had taken a weeks' leave.

oOo

"At last!" exclaimed Doyle, stalking into Bodie's flat.

"What d'you mean?"

"I've been trying to get in touch with you for the last three days."

"I wasn't here."

"I managed to work that out for myself." Doyle's glare intensified. "You haven't been to visit Keller in hospital again? Christ, if Cowley finds out - "

"He knows. I told him. I won't compromise the case. It was a personal visit."

"Personal!"

"Why so surprised? I'd visit you."

The retort stopped Doyle in his tracks. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"You're not so different," shrugged Bodie, having had plenty of time to think about it. If Keller could let him down, why shouldn't Doyle? Marika had done it, Jenny, his Mum... Even Cowley, when it suited his grand plan. You'll learn one day. Look out for number one because no one else will, he reminded himself tiredly, wanting only to be alone.

"You think I'm like that scum bag?" demanded Doyle in outrage.

Bodie offered the truth as it seemed to him in that moment. "In some ways you're worse."

When Doyle, his expression stony, turned to leave, Bodie didn't try to stop him.

Doyle paused in the doorway. "I came round to let you know that we've had word on Mahoney's whereabouts. Cowley's sending me up to Wolverhampton - undercover obbo for a few weeks."

"Solo?"

"Yeah." Doyle pulled a face. "The odds are I won't be able to get to the phone much, if at all. I'll be in deep."

"Then maybe I'll take some more leave," remarked Bodie, that enough to crystallise his decision; Doyle's absence would give him the freedom to act on it.

This not the reaction he had hoped for - or expected - Doyle gawped at him. "I'll be away for a month or so, Wolverhampton," he prompted.

"I heard you. Be careful."

Moving from the threshold, Doyle carefully closed the door behind him. "Look, about Keller. Is everything all right? He hasn't had a relapse or anything?" he asked with concern, trying to account for Bodie's strange mood even while he wondered why he bothered, he didn't get any thanks for it.

"Not him. If I know Jimmy he's probably planning his getaway this very minute."

"You aren't thinking of helping him?" Doyle relaxed at Bodie's unmistakable surprise.

"Stupid I may be, that stupid I'm not. Thanks very much. I appreciate your good opinion of me."

"I didn't mean it like that and you bloody know it," snapped Doyle, stalking across the room. "He's a mate and you'd do a lot for a mate."

Bodie's stare was that of a remote stranger.

Doyle dragged a hand back through his hair. "Look, have I done...? It's our last chance for some time together for quite a while. I hoped we could make the most of it," he said with unusual diffidence, amending what he had been about to ask when his nerve failed him in the light of the expression on Bodie's face.

Last chance.

The realisation almost made Bodie reconsider. But he knew that if he didn't leave CI5 now the only way he would make it out of the Squad would be in a veneered casket, with Cowley having to take a half day's leave for another funeral.

Last chance.

Staring into worried green eyes Bodie's resolve wavered. "Stay over," he said roughly, his hands framing Doyle's face with care before he kissed him, very slowly, as if for the first time.

 

Staring wearily up into the sweat-slick face smiling down at him, Bodie said tiredly, "So you did it again." Don't you ever learn? Give Ray an inch and he's fucking you through the mattress. And you, you love it.

Doyle's smile became fixed, then faded. "Something's wrong."

"Only you would notice when it's too late."

"Don't talk in riddles, Bodie. What is it? Did I hurt you?"

The fear on Doyle's face slid through Bodie's barriers. "Of course you bloody didn't. Not your style - or mine to let you," he added realistically.

"Then what is it?"

Last chance.

"Nothing. Forget it. Get some sleep. Come on. It's late and I'm knackered even if you're not."

Raising himself a little, Bodie mopped unselfconsciously with the corner of the sheet at the seepage tickling his upper thigh before subsiding. Have to change the linen before I go, he reminded himself.

Still trying to evaluate his companion's mood, Doyle was frowning. "What you said just now. Did you mean me doing you?"

"Forget it, Ray." There was a faint edge to Bodie's voice. "Shut up and go to sleep, or shut up and go. Either way, keep quiet."

"I could understand if that's what it is," said Doyle, rushing into speech as if afraid he wouldn't be able to say it otherwise. "Thing is - you're going to laugh yourself silly, I know - but when we're together I'm like a kid with a bag of sweets trying to fend off the rest of the gang so he can stuff the goodies in before he loses them."

"Well, you certainly stuffed in plenty tonight," remarked Bodie aware of the ache in his lower back and another very different ache somewhere in the region of his heart.

Don't look like that, Ray. Don't make it any harder than it is. I've got to be free. He ignored the small voice which asked, 'For what?'

Having flinched, Doyle remained silent, his downbent head offering few clues.

Reaching out against his better judgment, Bodie drew him close. "I didn't mean it like that. So you like to lead, eh? You mean you never let go, never wanted to lie back and think of England while someone else works themselves to death?" It was so much a habit that he was unaware of his caressing hands or indulgent expression. It was difficult to resent being irresistible.

"Not England, no," said Doyle, his errant senses seduced by nothing more than the velvety voice and the eyes openly cataloguing his charms. His tongue flicked over his lower lip.

"Don't do that," said Bodie distractedly.

"Why not?"

"Because the rest of me can't live up to the plans I'm concocting. Your mouth is - " Bodie sought the just-parted lips with his own, tugging gently at Doyle's top lip, his tongue possessive, his hands everywhere, abruptly urgent for him.

The last time.

It seemed impossible that he should be considering sundering his life from Doyle's. Equally it was impossible to stay.

While it had been far from Bodie's intention, he drained Doyle hollow, taking him with his mouth and fingers until Doyle was no more than an exhausted tangle of limbs, still quivering with the force of his climax. Despite his earlier doubts about his ability to revive, Bodie came with the echo of Doyle's strangled scream in his ears and the wish that it could have been different, that they could have their time together over again.

But his mind was inexorably set on escape. He had to leave - and not just because of Doyle. The job had long since turned sour, his respect for Cowley tainted by each increasingly dirty job. The fault wasn't Cowley's for being who he was - or what the job made him - any more than Bodie thought it was his own. It was just that he'd had enough. He'd seen too many people die in his time, his pragmatism eroded with each death until there seemed no point or end to it. More than that, and the fact he didn't want to die because his mind was on other than his job, he was afraid - of how much Doyle meant to him, and of the violence of his own feelings, which had found expression in his possessive take-over just now. Doyle would carry bruises from tonight, some of them in painful places. Not what he had intended, but a final warning, had any been needed.

"Bodie?"

His back to his partner, Bodie remained on his side, feigning sleep. The second time he heard the soft query he closed his eyes, his facial muscles tense as he willed Doyle to give up.

When it was quiet, Doyle motionless beside him, Bodie lay staring out into the darkness, more unhappy than he could ever remember feeling in his life. Intending to keep a night watch, he only realised he had slept when he woke and saw the face of his alarm clock.

Due to see Cowley at headquarters in twenty-five minutes and needing at least fifteen of them and a prevailing wind to get there on time, Doyle was a blur of motion, with no time for conversation beyond the basics. His frenzied rush made the parting easy, and as casual as Bodie had hoped for, leaving no time for poignancy or regrets.

Giving Doyle's leather-clad back a clap of farewell, Bodie gently closed the front door behind him and his palm flat against the wood, let it rest there for a moment. Then, before he could begin to regret his decision, he set about his preparations for departure.


	4. Chapter 4

PART TWO

 

FOUR

The address was sufficient notice of middle-class affluence to make Ruth suppose that, for once, the Old Man was combining business with pleasure, an event she regarded as long overdue. Seeing the signpost for Middle Farham, she signalled left with relief, having discovered that mileage along country lanes could be a somewhat elastic affair.

Oblivious to his driver's interest in his well-being, Cowley was engrossed in reading the records of the men he had met and assessed over the last three days, with the intention that some of them might be invited to join CI5's training programme. This trip had been unproductive: they had been a lumpish bunch. Active field service demanded more than competence, that one of the more acceptable reasons for the fact CI5 was habitually under strength.

Beginning to wonder if Ruth's map-reading abilities had failed her when the journey continued beyond the time he had calculated, Cowley glanced up from the last record sheet in time to see the bonnet of the car swing into the concealed driveway. Passing through the cool, green tunnel offered by the interlaced branches, diffused sunlight flicked over his face in a disconcerting strobe effect before the Rover purred back out into the brilliance of the July afternoon.

His papers collected together and returned to his briefcase before the car came to a halt, Cowley gave an appreciative sigh, eyeing the view in front of him with a pleasure untainted by envy. The small house leaning crookedly out towards them was exquisite, mellow with age and the care which had been lavished to maintain its piquant charm in the twentieth century. The undulating grounds spread around it were too extensive for the description of a mere garden and too lush with undisciplined plant life to be called parkland, which conjured up a far statelier image. Now Ruth had cut the ignition the only sounds were the heavy drone of pollen-drunk bees and bird song. Then, in the distance, came the desultory clang of metal hitting metal, the uneven hammering which followed as incongruous a reminder of the modern world he served as the filthy Landrover parked in front of him.

Wondering what Ray Doyle, a child of the streets, had found to hold him in this pastoral setting for the last six and a half months Cowley remained where he was for a moment longer, absorbing the idiosyncratic charm of his surroundings. Tucking two slim folders under his arm, he crossed the gravelled drive and stepped into the deep-shadowed porch. His hand was raised to the bell-pull when the heavy front door was flung open in his face, the occupant spilling over the threshold. Only millimetres from collision, the crimson-clad whirlwind ground to a halt, bags and parcels cascading to the ground.

"Damn!" The voice was surprisingly deep for one so tiny, and unmistakably feminine, warm as peaches ripening in the sun. "I'm so sorry, that's a poor welcome to greet you with. I didn't intend to fling my worldly goods at your feet."

She reached out a staying hand when Cowley bent to retrieve them. "No, leave them there until I sort myself out - car keys for one thing. I had them a moment ago." She patted her pockets in a hopeful manner.

Cowley gestured to the little finger of her left hand, where a ring holding two keys was hooked.

"Oh, thanks. Now, what may I do for you? It was me you wanted, I suppose?" she added, viewing him with some doubt.

It was a moment before Cowley thought to reply. Kate Holden, sculptress of some note and with a reputation for being a vociferous supporter of ninety per cent of the feminist activist groups, was not what the computer printout had led him to expect. His lingering survey revealed her to be far from the moustached worthy of his imagination, the home-spun smock replaced by a casual, expensive elegance. But then she has an income with which to indulge her taste, he reminded himself. From her first husband, or was it her third? Only then did he appreciate that she was studying him with equal frankness, her amusement plain.

Made to feel gauche for the first time in many years, Cowley drew his wandering wits together. "Good afternoon, Miss - er - Ms Holden." It was a form of address he abominated but used because of the uncertainty regarding her marital status. "My name is Cowley, George Cowley. I apologise for descending on you uninvited but I had cause to be in the area and hoped to see Ray Doyle. I understand he has been living with you - er - staying here for several months."

Kate Holden's speculative look of welcome changed to an expression of muted but unmistakable hostility. "Cowley! I should have guessed! I knew you'd come here sooner or later. You're determined to drag Ray back into the fold, aren't you?" 

"The fold?" he echoed, offering a politician's smile.

"CI5," she elaborated, with an impatient gesture of her hand. "Or should I pretend I've never heard of it, or your position as its head?"

Trained decades since against the dangers of making premature assessments, Cowley was chagrined and ruffled by the knowledge that he had been guilty of doing just that, and worse, that he had been caught doing it. Discarding his unconscious expectation of meeting either a woolly-minded free-spirit or a strident feminist, he realised that Kate Holden reminded him of two very different women: Elizabeth Walsh and Annie.

"You've heard of me through some reference of Doyle's?"

Refusing to feel intimidated on her own doorstep, Kate Holden matched him stare for stare. "We do have other topics of conversation, I have other friends. The existence of CI5 and your involvement as its guiding force is hardly a secret - particularly since the public enquiry. About three years ago, wasn't it?"

"Three years and two months. While we don't seek publicity, for reasons I'm sure you'll appreciate, I don't regard the work of CI5 or my involvement with it as a matter for apology, Mrs - or is it Miss? - Holden. Our records aren't always as complete as we might wish them to be."

"I don't suppose they are. The days of the police state haven't arrived yet, however close to them we might be. My professional name remains Holden whatever my marital status, which is my concern, not yours." Belatedly aware she had allowed him to ruffle her, she frowned. "You did that very skilfully, Mr Cowley. Why have you come here? You must know Ray has no desire to see you again and every wish for his resignation to become a recognised fact."

He nodded, wondering what could have drawn and held Doyle to this sharp-tongued woman with her plain, cat-like face which, devoid of make-up, revealed every one of her forty-nine years. His musings were interrupted by a soft chuckle.

"Poor Mr Cowley, you look so puzzled. Let's just say Ray shares my sense of humour," she said, enjoying his discomfiture.

Unamused by the speed and ease with which she had charted his thought processes and lapse into bad manners, Cowley's mouth thinned, aware that the fault for this inauspicious beginning was his own. Before he could attempt to formulate a reply she gave a smile whose warmth prevented him from ever thinking of her as plain again.

"That was unfair of me. Your manners are far too good to permit you to reply in kind."

"Not," he assured her blandly, his recovery total, "necessarily."

Cocking her head, she considered his claim. "But not, I think, while you consider yourself to be my guest. I'm not a suspect, am I?"

"I would hardly tell you if you were," he pointed out.

Reassured despite her awareness of the power at Cowley's command, she smiled. "My conscience is clear. If it's any consolation, I find it equally difficult to understand what Ray sees in you."

"Is that so?" In some circles she's probably considered amusing, Cowley reflected acidly before his sense of the ridiculous came to the rescue of his battered ego. The austerity of his expression was banished when he, too, smiled. "Could we perhaps agree that, whatever his many faults, Ray Doyle's taste in his friends is impeccable?"

"Are you a friend of Ray's?"

His smile faded. "I'm his employer. That's why I'm here. It's time Doyle returned to London and the work he does best."

"Whose best - Ray's? I doubt it. God knows what kind of grubby work you had him doing but.. It was two months before I heard him laugh - as if he really meant it. Even now... He needs more time."

"He's been here for over six months."

"It isn't enough. Those bullet wounds were the least of the injuries he sustained." Before Cowley could attempt to speak she made a sound of impatience. "What do you care? Results, they're all that matter to you, aren't they? Drag him back then, for you'll play on that social conscience of his like a master." She gave the folders under his arm a look of contempt. "Are they your bait?"

"If need be." Cowley was patient with her, recognising her very real concern for Doyle's welfare. But while Doyle might have found himself a comfortable shelter from the storm, it was time for him to rejoin the real world, the world he had been trained for.

Something in his manner made her pause, overt antagonism fading as she recognised one surprising fact. "You don't sound very enthusiastic about having him back."

"I'm not." Cowley had no intention of pointing out that anyone giving less than one hundred per cent of their attention to the job was unlikely to survive it for long, as Doyle had discovered to his cost.

"Then why force him back? For the greater good?"

Cowley gave her a pained look. "Essentially correct, if not quite the phrase I would have chosen. I have little alternative. Doyle's skills are needed in London. You need have no fear he'll be coerced into doing anything. I've always found Doyle to be more than capable of protecting his own interests."

"I would have agreed with you seven months ago. But people change - you'll find Ray has."

"Have you known him long?"

"Your records really have let you down, haven't they? Since Ray was nineteen or so." She offered a mocking half-smile when a flicker of surprise escaped him. "Now you must be really confused as to whether Ray lives with - er - stays with me. Any information you require on that subject you must obtain from him."

"First I need to know where I may find Doyle," Cowley reminded her. "I have travelled a considerable distance to see him and - "

" - your time is valuable? I'm afraid that doesn't make you unique. Why come in person? We are on the phone. But you know that already, of course. Two weeks ago, wasn't it? Why should you suppose Ray will have changed his mind since you last spoke with him - or are those intended to change it for him?" She nodded to the files again.

Glancing down at them Cowley's expression was one of unconscious severity when he thought of what they contained. "Perhaps."

Had he but known it, it was that small, telling gesture which defeated her. He heard only her sigh.

"You'll probably find Ray somewhere around the grounds. I don't think he was planning to go into town. If he isn't in the vegetable garden or orchard, try the workshop beyond them. Mr Cowley, be..." Her voice trailed away.

He gave her a look of polite encouragement.

One hand ruffling her short, spiky hair, she pulled a face. "Be patient, if it's within you. I don't know what happened to Ray, except that he was shot, but he has changed."

"In what way?" he asked sceptically.

"He's existing, not living," she replied promptly. "While Ray gives quite a good performance, don't make the mistake of taking it at face value. Don't expect too much."

Her appraisal doing no more than confirm the reports he had been given after Doyle's last evaluation, Cowley avoided her worried eyes. "I'm a very patient man, Ms Holden."

"And I'm being ridiculous," she recognised. "You'll do what you came here to do, irrespective of the cost."

Her parcels and bags retrieved from the floor, she straightened, noticing more after the respite from his shrewd, deflecting gaze. Now she saw only a tired man in late middle years, his face lined by decision and authority, impeccably tailored and with a leg which pained him. What more there might be to George Cowley she could only guess at. Ray respected him, even held him in a grudging affection; that must count for something. Perhaps Mr Cowley would succeed where everyone else had failed.

"Whatever the outcome of your discussion, you're welcome to spend the night here," she said, surprising herself with the offer only slightly less than Cowley. "I may be back tonight. If so, I hope to find you here on my return. Joan, my housekeeper, will prepare a meal for you but her legs aren't up to the stairs so you'll have to see to your rooms yourselves. There are six bedrooms to choose from, Ray will show you where the linen is kept. And for heaven's sake tell that poor girl to come into the house, or to find some shade under the trees, she'll cook in the car. I must go."

Surprised on several counts, Cowley inclined his head, already jettisoning his plan to return to London that night. Rescuing a tilting parcel, he tucked it more securely under his hostess's chin, knowing better than to suggest he take any from her. Remaining in the concealing shadows of the porch, he watched as the Landrover, complete with Kate Holden and sundry packages, disappeared from his life.

 

Muttering irritably under his breath, Doyle wiped his grubby hands down his filthy jeans, took a deep breath and reached up to renew his struggle with the corroded metal clamp. At some cost to his skinned knuckles it was finally free. Spitting out the particles of rust which had showered his upturned face he stepped back a pace to stare at the listing structure which, for all his efforts, looked to be in danger of imminent collapse.

"Soddin' thing," he muttered, unable to work out where he had gone wrong.

The spanner sliding to the floor, he belatedly realised he was still wearing his sunglasses and pushed them up over his head; the two inch growth, which was all that remained of his hair, offered little anchorage. Grimacing, he ran a self-conscious hand over it, yet to accustom himself to the lack.

A moment later, sensing himself to be under surveillance, he swung round, all trace of expression leaving his face when he recognised the dapper figure framed in the doorway.

"Good afternoon, 4.5."

Making no attempt to return the salutation Doyle propped himself on the edge of the cluttered workbench, his weight taken on his outstretched hands behind him as he allowed the silence to grow. It was a trick he had seen Cowley employ more than once.

Unsurprised by his lack of welcome, having expected nothing else since his telephone conversation with Doyle two weeks earlier, Cowley shrugged and entered the coolness of the dimly-lit workshop.

"It's fortunate I wasn't expecting the prodigal's welcome," he remarked dryly. "May I sit down?"

"The prodigal's my role, surely? You'll find your car more comfortable."

"Very likely. I'll stand then." A seat would have been welcome, the steep terrain having exacted its usual price. Cowley did not belabour the point. While aware he needed time in which to plan his campaign, in view of the chill lack of interest emanating from the younger man, he had no intention of using his own disability to gain himself that time.

"Suit yourself," shrugged Doyle.

This control was something new, recognised Cowley. In the past Doyle would have challenged him immediately and plunged headlong into argument. "I trust you won't imagine I'm about to reach for a gun if I unfasten my jacket and loosen my tie."

"There's nothing I could do about it if you did," replied Doyle, his hands parting. "There are no weapons here."

"No?" countered Cowley, his eyes on those empty, lethal hands.

"No. Why did you waste the time and petrol to come here? I said all I had to when you rang last month."

"Our discussion was far from final. I need to talk to you and I was in the area. I hoped these might convince you where I failed." Cowley tossed the folders onto the workbench next to Doyle, the motes of dust they raised seeming to hang suspended in the sunlight streaming in through the open door.

"I'm invalided out, remember?" Doyle did not spare the files a glance.

"No, you're on unpaid leave of absence. There is a difference."

"Only because you refuse to process my resignation."

"You look remarkably fit."

"Clean living and lack of stress. It's not a bad recipe, you should try it some time."

"Aye, maybe I - " Stepping back a pace in an attempt to relieve the cramp in his leg, Cowley trod on the discarded spanner. Saving himself from an ignominious fall, he jarred his leg abominably and for a moment the world turned red.

"Hang on." A chair appeared from nowhere, received a cursory wipe and was thrust under Cowley, a rust-stained hand ensuring he remained on that much needed support.

"There, you can faint now if you have to. You stubborn old sod. Why don't you have that leg seen to?" muttered a familiar voice.

A trace of colour returning to his sweating face, Cowley opened his eyes to deliver a creditable glare. "When I want medical advice from you, 4.5 I'll be - "

" - sure to ask for it. Nothing changes, does it," sighed Doyle, his face coming to life as his expression gained warmth. "Well, in my medical opinion you look terrible. Sit tight and I'll see if there's a beer around before I take you back to the house. It's a fair walk."

"So I discovered. I see you believe in surrounding yourself with comfort while you work," Cowley remarked as Doyle crouched in front of what proved to be a refrigerator, taking refuge in the inconsequential before Doyle could close him out again. It irritated him to realise that any chance he had gained stemmed from pity.

"Oh, I'm all in favour of comfort," agreed Doyle, a mocking curve to his mouth.

Accepting the proffered can of lager with a nod of thanks, Cowley hauled off the ring top, drinking from the condensation slick can of Carlsberg with a practised ease which made Doyle blink. Pounds they'd lavished on twelve-year-old malt, because Bodie had convinced him it was the only form of bribery Cowley was open to.

Bodie...

Doyle had trained himself not to think about Bodie a long time since. Feeling very naked, he casually retrieved his sunglasses from where they were perched, slipping them onto his nose despite the diffused light in the shed.

"The fridge is for Kate when she's working up here," he offered, hoping the effort he was making was not apparent.

"Ms Holden isn't the only one at work, I see." Sweat gleaming on his temples, Cowley seemed otherwise recovered, if a little paler than normal. "I can see what you've been busy with. What's it supposed to be?" he added, giving the rusting metal structure in front of him a dubious glance.

Doyle gave the older man's intent profile a glance of amused respect, aware that Cowley was taking the trouble to study the edifice in question. It was then that he recognised the changes the months had wrought in Cowley's appearance. No spring chicken, Cowley was looking every one of his years, plus a few extra hard ones. Things must be going badly for CI5. Not my concern, Doyle reminded himself, aware of the memories waiting to spill out if he was stupid enough to give them the chance.

"What does it look like?" he asked briskly. 

"The beginnings of some poorly erected scaffolding," decided Cowley, having given the matter due deliberation.

"I can't say I'm surprised, that's what it's supposed to be," admitted the architect, jerking a disparaging thumb at his own creation. "I don't seem to 'ave got the hang of it yet."

"Why construct it up here?" asked Cowley, trying to decide where Doyle had gone wrong. The listing structure offered a number of possibilities.

"This is a trial run on a small scale. If I can make a go of it, it would save Kate having to get outside labour in. She suggested I have a practice first. You can see why. She'll laugh herself silly when she sees this," added Doyle ruefully.

"What does she need scaffolding for?" asked Cowley, sidetracked from the purpose of his visit. Having had the opportunity to take in his surroundings, he realised that despite the impression of clutter, the work surfaces were scrupulously clean, the vast work shed well-made, the tools numerous and expensive.

"Kate's studio is out the back," replied Doyle, his manner leaving the older man with the impression that he was giving little of his attention to their conversation. "There's no way she'd trust me to practise on site. Justifiably. For the moment she'll have to carry on making use of the services of Joe from the village. Maybe he gives lessons," he added pensively.

Cowley ignored the oblique reference to permanence. "Why does she need scaffolding up here, she's a sculptress, not a builder?"

"First off, she's a sculptor. What were you expecting - garden gnomes? Or the PM's head for a paper weight?" Doyle gave the mystified Scot a look of assessment. "Is your leg OK now? And there's no need to glare at me like that, I only asked. Come on then."

"Where to?" asked Cowley with caution, remembering that particular look of innocence of old.

"Kate's studio." Doyle's voice seemed to echo as he disappeared into the depths of the workshop. "Time to broaden your horizons. I bet your ideas begin and end with Nelson's Column. No, to be fair, 'The Thinker' is probably more your style. Now that would have taken some careful handling."

His curiosity stirred, Cowley permitted what had undoubtedly been intended as a slur to pass unchallenged as he followed the younger man.

Pausing at a pair of double doors Doyle fumbled for the key, sliding one door open to reveal a starkly lit area the size of a small church, the vast ceiling-to-floor windows along the opposite side of the room and skylights high above flooding the studio with an apricot-coloured light. Half of another wall was taken up by large cupboards, one of which was ajar to reveal a variety of neatly stored electrical equipment. The long mirrors with the mounted arc lights above them made the studio seem even larger. Cowley noticed these details only in passing; there was only one completed piece of work.

Lost in silent contemplation, Cowley's concentration was such that he was oblivious to the fact he was being studied in his turn.

"Always thought her work was classier than garden gnomes myself," Doyle offered some time later, breaking the spell.

Recalled to himself, Cowley withdrew the hand which had been caressing a serene, hollowed abstract, the golden-hued stone rough-smooth and pleasing to the touch. No, more than pleasing, familiar, memory insisted.

"How does she work?" he asked abruptly, gesturing to the half-worked block of stone which dwarfed him. A sculptor, the printout had said. He had been more correct than he supposed when he used the term builder. She was a builder in stone, freeing the form locked within.

"You can see some of Kate's gear lying around. This is from a new quarry she's trying out. The stone's too friable though - the texture's a bitch unless you're very, very good, and even then..." Doyle shrugged. "A new quarry is always worth testing. Kate's lucky, she can afford to test on the scale which suits her. You can see she has power for the water jets and drills. While she's been known to use them she prefers to work the hard way, by hand with chisels. Says she likes to feel what she's doing."

Cowley gave an absent nod, his attention returning to the sculpture in front of him. A day wouldn't be long enough. The sky outside a rich drama of purples and blues, he remembered other sunsets, experiencing a wistful ache for chances lost or misused, Annie and those youthful days of determined normality at the war's end.

"Does this have a title?" he asked, unconscious of how long he had been silent.

"You've taken to that one, haven't you?" Doyle's smile was apparent in his voice.

"A masterful understatement. Aye, it's - " Cowley gave an abstract curve another practised caress, half-turning when he heard a warm chuckle of earthy approval at his shoulder.

"Mother Breast Feeding," intoned Doyle.

"What?"

"That's what this symbolises."

"Good god!" Disconcerted, Cowley slid his betraying hands into the safety of his pockets. "Well, there's a Freudian slip on my part."

"Nah, just means you're a boob man," said Doyle cheerfully. "I've always had a thing about long legs myself, but this might just convert me." It was too easy to forget, he thought, remembering a time when Cowley had revealed himself to be no more immune to love than anyone else. No luckier either. "I'll tell Kate she's found herself another fan." His tone took it for granted that they had met.

Abruptly Cowley was all business. "I doubt if Ms Holden will be impressed. I can understand the appeal of this rural life, but there's work waiting for you in London." Turning away from the power and beauty of the serene, compelling sculpture, his tone made it clear there would be no man-to-man exchanges on the delights of female pulchritude.

"There's work for me here," countered Doyle, accepting the rebuff because he knew he had seen more in Cowley's face just now than the other man would care for. Perhaps it'll remind him to ease off on me, he thought as he led them from the studio. Relocking the vast door and activating the alarms he slid the key, not without difficulty, into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Living off Ms Holden?"

Doyle's sunglassed profile tightened. "I'll forget you said that, Kate deserves better."

"As you do. There's no point your selling yourself short with me. I can't abide waste," Cowley added in an oblique and rare apology.

"That's probably your Scottish blood coming out." Staring at his trainered feet, Doyle gave a faint sigh. "Anyway, you weren't far wrong. I certainly did as much when I was a kid."

"Did what?" enquired Cowley, collecting up the folders from the workbench.

"Lived off a rich woman."

A sandy eyebrow rose as Cowley made a hasty mental review of Doyle's record. "When did you have the time?"

"The year I spent at art college. The grant didn't go far and I'd had enough of working for a living in the sports shop and gym. So I found myself a rich lady. Kate was guest lecturer at college that year. It was a great life while it lasted, even if I was too green to appreciate what I'd found. I've learnt better since."

There was a note in Doyle's voice which caused Cowley to give him a sharp, unseen glance. Doyle's claim to be free of stress might contain an element of truth but it was obvious that he was neither happy nor particularly content.

"There's work for you in London," he repeated without emphasis.

Motioning him out of the work shed, Doyle closed the doors and double locked them before setting the alarm. Assessing the security system being used, Cowley was prepared to wager Doyle had been responsible for its installation; it was the best on the market.

"We both know I'll never work for CI5 again. I wouldn't survive the physical for a grade 7 call-out." It was impossible to gauge Doyle's feelings on the subject, his bearded and sunglassed face revealing nothing.

Cowley found it yet another indication of the changes in the younger man, which went far beyond the superficial alteration in his physical appearance. It wasn't enough to make him forget how useful Doyle had been to CI5 in the past, Cowley determined that he would be again.

"That has yet to be demonstrated. The work we do has never been restricted to street-level investigations. You know that as well as I do."

"Pushing paper? No thanks."

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind either. You're already fit enough for my purpose."

The fish refused the proffered bait.

"No."

Doyle's continued lack of emphasis was more telling than vehemence would ever be. Stumbling a little over the tussocky ground, Cowley's arm tightened over the two folders. "Would you mind telling me why?"

"I'm not required to give any reason for resigning. I was debriefed when I came out of hospital," Doyle reminded him. The convalescent place he had been sent to after that was a grim memory; institutional smells overlaying the deathly cheeriness of the staff. But lacking any immediate family there had been nowhere else for him to go for a couple of weeks. The trips back to the hospital for physiotherapy had freed him for a few hours a day; in retrospect they had probably kept him sane. "Mind, the going's slippery here," he warned, clamping down against self-pity before he should become maudlin.

"That was in the nature of a personal request," remarked Cowley, wishing Doyle would slow down a little. "For old time's sake."

"You being such a great one for sentiment," returned Doyle sardonically. His head bent, he seemed to be concentrating only on the passage of his feet when he stopped in his tracks, turning to hold his companion's gaze. "But that's why not - for old time's sake. That part of my life's over. Whatever I do next it won't have anything to do with CI5."

"Why not?" There was no more than polite interest in Cowley's query.

Sliding his sunglasses back on top of his head, Doyle briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hoped you might be able to work that out for yourself. I wouldn't be any use to you, whatever plans you've made. I'm suffering from Brian's complaint, you see. My nerve's gone."

Cowley stared after the retreating figure before he thought to follow him. They had reached level ground now, the orchard behind them as they walked beneath a tangled area of late-flowering honeysuckle and Albertine roses, the air sweet and heavy with their mingled perfume, the ground littered with pale pink petals.

"Not your nerve but your interest and sense of commitment. Both can be rekindled. You were stale. While you were shot because of your own carelessness, the fault was partially mine for failing to recognise that you were unfit for duty."

Cowley knew that to be a lie; the truth was less acceptable. He had known what was wrong the moment he told the tired, hyped-up agent returning from a dangerous five weeks undercover that his partner had resigned. Doyle hadn't believed him, brushing aside plans to assign him a new partner as he disappeared to catch up on some much needed sleep. Unusually forbearing, Cowley had left him to his own devices for twenty-four hours before producing Bodie's letter of resignation, identity card and equipment, reminding Doyle that arrangements would have to be made to clear Bodie's flat of the possessions he hadn't bothered to take with him. Doyle had believed him then, filing away the information before his eyes. Furious with both men for depriving him of his best team, Cowley had convinced himself that Doyle would get over Bodie's desertion and set him a punishing workload. Within a fortnight he had appreciated his mistake in taking Doyle's blank control for acceptance but whilst Doyle functioned with such ruthless efficiency had postponed suspending him, riding rough-shod over Ross's warnings. They had been lucky the damage had been confined to Doyle rather than involving the public they protected. Doyle leaving his flat unlocked was an elementary mistake few housewives would make, let alone an agent of six years' standing.

"Unfit?" echoed Doyle derisively, rejecting Cowley's euphemism.

"You were in shock, man."

Neither seeking to confirm nor deny that assessment, Doyle avoided Cowley's dissecting gaze, memories raw as bleeding meat submerging him. Too much of what had been most important in his adult life had been lived around the man at his side, Cowley the master of his destiny. And Bodie's, until Bodie had severed all emotional ties.

"You were shot approximately three months after learning Bodie had resigned as I recall."

His hard-won calm breached, Doyle glared at his tormentor. He didn't have to take this kind of interference from anyone. Not now. But probing the subject he had forbidden himself was irresistible.

"About that long," he agreed, emotion flattened out of his voice. By then he had stopped believing Bodie would reappear from wherever Cowley had sent him and had known almost to the last dragging minute how long it had been since he had seen his partner. Pining like an abandoned dog. How bloody sentimental. Not my style at all. Or Bodie's. Obviously. And the pain was back, fresh as the day when he had learnt the truth.

"What's all this leading up to?" he demanded, because anything was better than having time to think. "Have you had any news from - about Bodie?" It was the question he had sworn he would never ask.

"Bodie is an important factor in my plans," said Cowley, pushing home the advantage he had gained.

He needed an experienced team he could trust for this operation, his options non-existent. Quite apart from his preference for CI5 keeping its own house in order, with the present upheaval in the other security services there was no outside help available. The Squad had been decimated over the last year, leaving too few of the old guard on strength. By the timing of the breaches in CI5's security Bodie and Doyle were the only two people Cowley felt remotely inclined to trust. That trust was already wavering, Doyle's attitude now something which would inspire little confidence in anyone who had known him a year ago. But if he could get Bodie and Doyle back in tandem...

The vetting of every member of CI5 while ostensibly involved in other work wouldn't be the task of a day or week. The cover story he had concocted for them, whilst far from perfect, would stand up, particularly as he intended to make full use of their other skills. They would be earning their inflated salaries, he thought with a grim satisfaction. It was short-lived. Until they flushed out the mole he had to try and anticipate from which section the next leak would come and what the repercussions might be.

"Bodie's involved?" said Doyle, unaware that his silence had lasted a full five minutes.

Studying the rigid set of the younger man's shoulders, recognising the unconscious note of longing in his voice, Cowley felt a stirring of self-dislike, weary of finding and preying upon the vulnerable spots of others.

"He is an important factor, yes."

Remaining by the kitchen door, staring at the clump of thyme sprouting around the rusting boot scraper, it was a bitter moment for Doyle, those few words forcing him to admit he would do whatever Cowley wanted if it meant he would see Bodie again. What was lost was lost, but if he knew why perhaps he would be able to accept that it was over and start building a new life for himself.

"You'd better come inside and tell me about it," he said tiredly, conscious that his shoulder had begun to ache rather badly.

 

When Cowley retired to the room Ruth had prepared for him he still did not know if Doyle would return to London with him. He was in no doubt that he had captured Doyle's interest, if for the wrong reasons. There was no mistaking Doyle's reluctance to return to CI5, whatever the role allotted him.

With other less orthodox powers of persuasion open to him Cowley knew he wouldn't use them, although Doyle was unlikely to appreciate his forbearance. But then Doyle was remarkably naive in some respects, perhaps because of that streak of idealism which had survived despite his years of investigating the culpable behaviour of those in power.

Despite the advanced hour it was still too humid to sleep. Having showered, Cowley wrapped a towel around his hips and moved to the open windows, the motionless air heavy with the cloying scent of the day lilies in the flower-bed beneath his window. One palm flat against the cool leaded glass, he frowned as he remembered Ruth's reaction upon recognising Doyle.

While she and Doyle had never been on terms better than those of guarded neutrality, her relief had been unmistakable, her private speculations as to the reason for the meeting obvious. Cowley was not surprised she should assume his visit to be connected with Doyle's return to active duty; he wasn't in the habit of employing fools. But her reaction proved morale was even lower than he had supposed amongst the more experienced agents. The reason was not hard to find. Experience was a rare commodity in CI5 these days. While the newer members had much to recommend them, there were occasions when using their services could be more of a hindrance than a help.

'Never send a boy to do a man's job.' His cliches were a by-word; he used them because they were true. CI5 needed more agents who could share their expertise. Jack Crane and Brian Macklin did the best they could, but the shortage of manpower prevented him from sending recruits to them as often or for as long as he would have liked. By keeping Bodie and Doyle at headquarters he might have the answer - if he could win back their trust and sense of commitment.

Ruth's manner with Doyle had reinforced Cowley's own unease about the younger man's state of mind. The muted personality and air of detachment were not in character; they disturbed Cowley, making him wonder if his plan to reunite his most efficient team might not be a double-edged sword. Then there was Bodie. It had been easy enough to trace him but Bodie's chosen lifestyle since leaving CI5 contradicted everything Cowley thought he knew of him.

One problem at a time, he reminded himself.

Sinking onto the padded window seat, his back to the cool plaster of the wall, his musings were interrupted when Doyle wandered onto the lawn, obviously returning from a walk around the grounds. It took Cowley a moment to recognise him, unaccustomed to Doyle's new silhouette. He found Doyle's wakeful state an encouraging sign, knowing Doyle had always preferred time and solitude in which to brood over major decisions. That much obviously hadn't changed. Glad he had resisted the temptation to steamroller Doyle back onto the Squad, Cowley continued to watch the younger man. If the investigation was to be a success he would need their whole-hearted co-operation. Despite his misgivings he was sure it would be forthcoming. Bodie and Doyle had given a lot to the department in the past, demonstrating a relentless determination to stop those who had sought to betray it.

CI5 had been lucky to date. None of the breaches in security had resulted in death or serious injury to one of the Squad or the public they protected. It could only be a matter of time before disaster struck. The mole must be found, and quickly. Cowley's anger and frustration were apparent now he had no audience.

As soon as Doyle's re-evaluation had been completed he would start feeding him the staff evaluations so Doyle could decide where to begin his investigation. Doyle had an instinct for this kind of work and experience in plenty of corruption cases. He would do well. With Bodie at his side he would do better. Bodie, impatient with detail yet possessing finer detecting instincts than many gave him credit for, would keep Doyle from his tendency to become bogged down in inessentials. Those two had always sparked ideas from each other.

Having decided to dress and go downstairs to resume his sales pitch, Cowley sank back onto the window seat upon realising Doyle had company. It was Kate Holden, the moonlight bright enough to offer a clear view of her anxious expression as she hurried over to him. They were too far away for Cowley to be able to hear what was said but he saw Doyle smile and shake his head, as if offering reassurance before he took her in an affectionate one-armed embrace. About to withdraw, having no interest in Doyle's always active sex-life where it did not affect CI5, Cowley paused, finally appreciating the fundamental change in Doyle which Ruth had noticed first. It was hardly surprising; whatever Ruth's relationship with Doyle, there had always been a sexual awareness sparking between them.

Doyle's appreciation of women and innate sensuality had been an enormous asset to the department in the past, an integral part of his persona, implicit in his every move and gesture. That was no longer the case.

Watching Doyle and Kate Holden, Cowley realised there was every likelihood that his assumption that they were lovers was out of date. Trying to avoid speculating without data, he frowned, aware from Doyle's recent medical that he had made a full physical recovery, even if he would never achieve combat fitness again. The suppression of a major part of Doyle's persona could not therefore be attributed to physical ill-health. It was a piece of elementary stupidity which had seen Doyle ambushed in his own flat after Bodie had resigned and... 

Damn. That was a connection he had tried to avoid because it suggested a level of emotional commitment he had not considered, even when Dr Ross had brought the possibility to his attention. And yet...

There was a trace of compassion on Cowley's face when he glanced back out of the window to where Doyle stood in the centre of the lawn, his head bowed, shoulders slumped now he was alone again. The sexual relationship had stemmed from more than expediency or mischievous experimentation then - on Doyle's side at least. But a broken romance is no excuse to opt out of life. If necessary he would have to make that much clear to him.

It was an unappealing prospect. Trusting that Bodie's emotional stability would be in a better state than his partner's, Cowley dismissed all thought of the pair from his mind and went to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE

 

Returned to corridors which seemed familiar despite the fact he had never seen this particular office before, Doyle found himself a fully-fledged member of CI5 within the space of a day, issued with a new identity card, flat, car and goal. He avoided unwelcome reunions with the few familiar faces he glimpsed around the place. Absent from CI5 for nearly nine months, he assumed his beard and shorn hair were responsible for the lack of recognition he had met with whilst suspecting the change in himself went far deeper - to the bone.

Still, I must be more human than I feel or Ross would have seen to it that I didn't get this far. Not that she was what you could call pleased to see me, he mused, grateful that his medical with Henderson and physical assessment with Macklin were also behind him, even if he was going to be seeing more than he cared for of the latter. Win some, lose some.

It was in that less than positive frame of mind that he learnt his evening would be spent at a briefing meeting with Cowley. Realising he had a couple of hours to spare, Doyle went off to inspect his new home.

The elegant top-security flat he had been allocated was a pleasant surprise, but apart from purchasing a few basic necessities such as tea, coffee, milk, sugar and toilet paper, he took little interest in his surroundings. There was no point, he didn't expect to be occupying them for long.

 

Having listened to Cowley's dry-voiced recital for some time, Doyle was left fighting a strong sense of disbelief.

"An in-depth vetting op. like this isn't a one-man job. It could take months -and from what you've said and I've seen - " he tapped the folders resting on the desk between them " - you can't afford for it to take days. It's been going on for nearly five months."

"I hardly need you to remind me of that. This will be a two-man assignment."

"It could be twenty for all the good it will do. We could spend a year on this and still come up with nothing - and you know it. Besides, Bodie won't do it. His idea of paperwork was always limited to getting his expenses in on time."

"Then it's up to you to persuade him to make an exception in this case, isn't it?"

Whether it was a challenge or a threat, Doyle ignored it. "An investigation at this level needs more manpower," he insisted. 

It occurred to Cowley that he had missed his enlivening arguments with Ray Doyle over the preceding months. "As and when you require assistance it will be made available to you through this office. I don't want any hint that you and Bodie are chasing our mole. You tell me who and what you want investigating and I'll put people onto it. Spot checks on our own people are standard procedure and should occasion little comment."

"I like an optimist."

"You've checked on Squad members in the past - Bodie for one. As I recall your suspicions weren't aroused."

Remembering Marika's death and the strained weeks of working with Bodie afterwards, Doyle nodded, his expression controlled. "It could work."

"It will have to. I don't want the pair of you wasting time on routine leg work. Whoever it is, I want them stopped."

Leaving his chair Doyle prowled around the room, pausing at the window to watch the rush-hour commuters on the pavement far below. "Whoever it is is either bloody good at covering their tracks or an amateur. Given that the majority of the breaches have been of a minor nature I think it's the latter. That points to the back-up staff."

"Then explain how they gained access to such a wide spread of information," invited Cowley acidly, this hardly a new thought to him.

"When I work that out, I will. The only reason you knew about most of the leaks is because they made the tabloids," continued Doyle, uncrushed by the snub.

"Making CI5 the laughing stock."

"Not to mention the German Ambassador. Active old bugger, isn't he." Receiving a repressive glare, Doyle waved an apologetic hand. "Not funny, I know. Particularly as the details could only have been supplied by one of six people in this department, none of whom could be implicated in the other leaks. The computer can't suggest a link between them. Perhaps there isn't one."

"There must be."

"Not if there's more than one mole," Doyle pointed out, doing little more than thinking out loud, having realised Cowley was going to throw him in at the deep end whatever he said. And him without his water wings.

"The computer couldn't find a link."

"The computer is only as good as the data being fed into it. It's tempting to think the information is being deliberately leaked late to prevent the maximum amount of damage from occurring but I don't believe in Father Christmas. It just doesn't feel like a pro job - unless it's a double bluff, a smokescreen."

"Which theory are you opting for?" asked Cowley dryly, satisfied that Doyle was beginning to think around the problem.

"Theory?" mocked Doyle. "More than my life's worth with you. I'm trying to keep an open mind. If you couldn't spot them it isn't likely to be an amateur - unless there's some link between the cases, something so obvious no one thought to feed it in. CI5's got more backroom staff than operatives now."

"Don't remind me." It was a sore point.

"I'll need a lot of computer time, before which I'll need retraining. Rusty doesn't begin to describe me and I was never what you could call an expert in the first place. Or should I liaise with what's-her-name, Trudy?"

"You'll get your training."

Nodding, Doyle continued to pace around the room. "Do we still tap the office 'phones?"

Unsurprised that Doyle should have known about that routine precaution, Cowley nodded.

"I'll need the tapes," sighed Doyle. Eighty-five per cent would be personal calls, usually hasty and lame explanations for broken dates; ten per cent would be easily verifiable business calls and five per cent oblique by intent as informers called in.

Relaxing back in his chair Cowley began to feel more sanguine about his plan, reassured by Doyle's unconscious use of the word we. Dr Ross had warned him that it would take time for both men to adjust not only to their return to CI5 and whatever problems that might cause them on a personal level but to their change of status within the Squad. Cowley was unwilling to make any concessions he didn't have to make. Kate Ross wasn't infallible.

"The next question," said Doyle, wandering back to stand in front of the desk, "is how we get the computer and investigation time we'll need while we're nursing the new saviours of Britain at the training centre."

"Part-time nursemaids only - and you'll be based in London. A timetable is being drawn up for you. You'll be seeing a lot of Brian and Jack but I think you'll find you have a fair amount of ostensibly free time. You'll have access to terminals both here at St James's and at Croydon."

"And the moment I try and access some of the hot files a red alert will announce to the world what I'm doing. I haven't got a snowball in hell's chance."

"You have if you're working under my aegis," said Cowley with a hint of complacency.

"How will you explain that away?" demanded Doyle truculently, aware he was being sucked back into the system without being able to stop it happening. Out of practice, he reminded himself wryly, beginning to appreciate what he had let himself in for.

Cowley's smile did little to reassure him. "I won't have to. The rumours will soon spread."

"Of what?" asked Doyle with suspicion.

"That I'm grooming my successors, of course." Cowley was rewarded by the rare sight of Ray Doyle deprived of the breath for speech.

"Bodie, too?" he asked, recovering.

"A joint takeover," confirmed Cowley benignly.

Giving a reluctant, admiring grin, Doyle was relieved to discover that the Scot had not changed the hiding place for the whisky.

 

oOo

 

When he could find no further excuses for postponing the moment Doyle scanned the resume Cowley had given him on his ex-partner. While it offered little illumination about Bodie's life during the year they had been apart, it gave Bodie a gleaming security rating. Doyle's eyebrows rose when he saw Bodie's address before he wondered why he should feel surprised. Bodie had always possessed a good head for business when he wasn't impersonating Neanderthal man. Re-reading the sheets with more care now he knew how little that was personal they contained, Doyle stared at one item with disbelief. He couldn't imagine Bodie involved in any kind of voluntary work, least of all that connected with rehabilitating young offenders. Booting them up the backside maybe, but giving classes in car maintenance for the National Association for the Care and Rehabilitation of Offenders seemed out of character - not to mention a classic case of taking coals to Newcastle.

Knowing he wasn't ready to meet Bodie yet Doyle devoted himself to the files he had been given. His concentration patchy, his sleep that night was poor, his meeting with Bodie looming large in his mind as something he did not want to do.

Dodging Cowley the following morning, knowing the older man would expect him to have made contact already, Doyle eventually ran out of excuses for himself. Lacking the courage to meet Bodie on his own doorstep, a call to NACRO gave him the address of the bodyshop where Bodie held his classes two mornings a week; he would be there this morning.

Doyle found the place with ease, the area familiar to him from his days on the Force. As Tower Hamlets had yet to be designated an up-and-coming area by estate agents, the only changes Doyle found were for the worse. Parking the car, he stared through the windscreen but could see little from this vantage point, the bodyshop set back from the road and surrounded by a high chain link fence. Before he could lose his nerve Doyle left the car, circling the less than salubrious area on foot as he followed the line of fencing to the back of the bodyshop. He heard the kids before he saw them; fourteen and fifteen year-olds, all legs, ears and acne. Siouxsie and the Banshees struggled to drown out the Rastafarian beat of Peter Tosh on a competing ghetto blaster, the sounds of a bodyshop at work just audible in the background.

Staring past the various cars awaiting attention, the fingers of one hand curled around the metal mesh of the fence, Doyle stood ankle- deep in greasy chip papers, crumpled cans and discarded condoms, scanning the overall-clad figures. Even from this distance he knew he would recognise Bodie.

'Never send a boy to do a man's job' had always been one of the Old Man's favourite sayings. Bodie was no boy. Assured, powerfully built and dauntingly competent in all he undertook, Bodie would never be mistaken for one. As Doyle watched, the youthful shifting figures came to a halt as the sounds of music were abruptly cut off. Complaints filled the air.

"I said quiet! Tea break's over. You might be the experts on nicking cars but you still know fuck all about looking after a motor. Ashley, get this Cortina started, the rest of you shut up and listen to the engine. I want to know what's wrong with it and how we can put it right."

The voice of ex-sergeant Bodie was unmistakable, cutting effortlessly through the hubbub of noise. With the sound of an engine roaring into life the last of the figures who had been hovering in the sunlight wandered into the shadows of the workshop and out of Doyle's line of vision.

Doyle made no attempt to move, his palms damp, his mouth dry. As if Bodie was the enemy. His emotions in a turmoil, he no longer knew what he wanted.

"'Ere! Wot the fock are yer starin' at?"

The demand roused Doyle from his reverie. Realising he was attracting attention by the simple fact of doing nothing, and with no wish to make his reunion with Bodie in front of fifteen ex-car thieves, Doyle unclenched his fingers from the fencing and turned away, setting a fast pace back to his car.

"What's up, Wayne?" asked Bodie, emerging into the sunlight at the first sound of trouble.

"Some bloody perv was watchin' us. I sent 'im packin'. I know wot I'd like t'do to 'im," Wayne added with aggressive relish; queer-bashing was a favourite pastime out of the football season.

"Well for now, come back inside and expend some of your energy on the wing of that Marina." Giving the young Londoner a shove in the right direction, Bodie paused, his incurious gaze passing over the distant figure turning the corner of the road.

oOo

 

A half-empty can of lager in one hand, impatient with this interruption to the afternoon's cricket, Bodie knew no presentiment when he went to answer the ring at his front door. In consequence he had nothing to prepare him for the moment when he recognised the man on his doorstep.

"'Lo, Bodie. Can I come in?"

His fingers cramped around the edge of the door Bodie stared at his caller, caught in an icy state of disbelief before anger submerged every other emotion. Just when he had sorted out a new life for himself, here was Doyle returned to haunt him. The first shock of recognition fading, he was coldly aware of the treacherous softness unfurling within him, unsettling memories spilling back. Resisting the impulse to slam the door on them and Doyle both, Bodie studied his ex-partner and ex-lover as objectively as he could.

While he didn't care for the lack of hair and the close-cropped beard, beneath them were familiar landmarks. Noting the aggressively casual stance, jutting chin and sunglassed eyes, Bodie recognised that this meeting was no easier for Doyle. The knowledge steadied him as nothing else could have done.

"Why?" Realising Doyle was disconcerted by the simple question, Bodie wondered just what kind of a welcome he had expected.

"It's official, CI5 business."

It felt strange to see Doyle so at a loss and Bodie took considerable satisfaction from the sight. It wouldn't do the bastard any harm to discover what it felt like, he thought savagely. He'd suffered enough of Doyle's moods in his time.

"CI5?" he echoed. "What an eventful life I must be leading. Where's your ID?" He felt a twist of triumph when Doyle fumbled for his wallet before silently extending it.

The card, Bodie noted, making no attempt to touch it, had changed. So had a lot of other things. It might have been a long time, but the fact it required all his will-power to keep his attention on the identification card rather than the man holding it told him it had not been long enough. Forcing himself to read every word of the small print beneath the tiny photo, he glanced up in time to see Doyle look away. "So you're here on business?"

"As you see. It might take a while to explain."

"Then you'd better talk quickly," Bodie advised him pleasantly. Rediscovering the can he held, he took a swig from it, swallowing the lager slowly whilst studying his visitor with an insulting attention to detail: trainers; jeans; tee shirt and a leather jacket - the wardrobe as predictable the man himself. Doyle hadn't changed - except for the beard and the absence of the luxuriant curls which had been his trademark. The severe new hairstyle made him look younger, in sharp contrast to the grey-flashed beard.

Very aware of Bodie's scrutiny and with no protection against the indifference in the eyes which judged him and found him wanting, Doyle shrugged with every appearance of ease. "It looks like I'll have to, though it's best spoken of in private." His point was reinforced when the front door opposite them opened.

Accepting that Doyle had just become the lesser of two evils, Mrs Beane always delighted to spend two hours discussing the weather, Bodie stepped back. "Be my guest." His tone was one of smooth hospitality as he waved Doyle down the hall. "The sitting room is the second door on your left."

Standing in the centre of a room which was both strange and familiar, certain that the walls were closing in on him, Doyle concentrated on the man he had once believed he knew better than himself. Bodie looks - bloody gorgeous. His hair a little longer, Bodie about eight pounds lighter than when Doyle had seen him last, he was otherwise unchanged. No, the expression in his eyes is new. It was also one Doyle didn't know how to interpret.

People change. I have, why shouldn't he? Despite all the evidence to the contrary there was a stubborn part of Doyle which refused to accept what had happened. Time retracting, he found himself waiting for Bodie's smile or some outrageous comment. Neither came.

Doyle had suspected this meeting would be difficult. He realised he should have found another excuse and insisted that Cowley make the initial approach himself. Sinking uninvited onto one of the huge armchairs he concentrated on his surroundings with the devotion of an interior decorator. The taste, if not the objects, was unchanged. The dimensions of the room generous, the colour tones were neutral beiges and browns, the furnishings sparse but luxurious; large picture windows offered a distant view of the Thames. Expensive, understated luxury - just Bodie's style. Becoming aware that the silence had gone on for too long, pride came to Doyle's rescue, forcing him to meet the sardonic blue gaze.

"Not a bad flat," he announced, removing his sunglasses. He could have winced at his inanity.

"We like it."

Doyle's eyes flickered at Bodie's use of the plural, sickly aware Cowley's resume wasn't up-to-date after all. What the hell did I expect to find - Bodie crouched over a gas-ring in some crummy bedsit, clutching my photo to his chest? Life must go on.

"Would you like a drink?"

Doyle would have accepted hemlock if it gave his hands some occupation. "Coffee, please." It was the first beverage he could think of.

Nodding, Bodie rose to his feet but did not as Doyle had hoped disappear to make it, going only as far as the door, which was ajar.

"Inger! I've got a visitor you'll recognise. Put the coffee on, love. Milk?" Bodie asked politely, turning back to Doyle.

"And sugar," he replied expressionlessly. Bodie who had known since their first day of being teamed how he drank his tea and coffee, as he had known Bodie's tastes. 

Maybe not though. If I'd known so much he wouldn't have walked out.

"You've moved into an up-and-coming area," Doyle said, needing to fill the silence. "Have you been here long?" 

"About ten months," replied Bodie, looking amused as he returned to his chair.

Doyle stared blindly at his outstretched legs. All his searching and Bodie had never been more than eight miles away. He was rescued from his thoughts when the door opened on an attractive, vaguely familiar brunette who smiled at him, first politely, then with genuine warmth.

"Ray! Ray Doyle! How lovely!"

Taking the proffered cup of coffee, Doyle coped automatically with the inevitable queries and reminiscences, Inger having seen CI5 in action thanks to her pupils.

"You remember Inger, of course," said Bodie, slinging a proprietorial arm around her. "My social conscience."

"What conscience?" she scoffed. For all her lightness of tone, her eyes were shrewd as she looked from one man to the other, sensing the jagged edges beneath the surface pleasantries and wondering what had became of the effortless rapport she had witnessed between them three years ago - and why she hadn't seen Doyle in the months she had been living with Bodie.

After ten minutes, during which time both men communicated with and through her, Inger rose to her feet, making school work her excuse, knowing it was unlikely Doyle would realise the school holidays had just begun.

"Don't make a stranger of yourself now you know where we are," she said in parting, giving him a swift kiss for some reason she could not explain.

"I'll try not to. Take care, love." One of Bodie's nicest birds she'd been - is, Doyle corrected himself fiercely, staring into his now lukewarm coffee.

"It didn't occur to me you were still in London. I thought you'd gone off to foreign parts," he offered quietly, with no intention of adding that he had used every contact he possessed and some he had no right to try and discover Bodie's whereabouts.

"Did you?"

Doyle's expression sharpened. No one changed this radically. "Of course. I was worried sick. Didn't know where you'd gone, you see. But then there are a lot of things I never knew - why you left so suddenly for one." He set his cup down in case it should start to rattle in the saucer.

Glancing at his watch Bodie discovered he had only lost half an hour of cricket. It felt like more. "I thought you came here on business," he said pointedly.

"I did, but is there any reason why you can't explain after all this time?" Abandoning his pride, Doyle added, "If you left a note, I never got it."

"I didn't bother with a note," replied Bodie, sounding bored. "There didn't seem any point. I left because it was time to move on. I'd had enough of working eighteen hours a day, six or seven days a week with Cowley setting us up whenever the fancy took him. And living in your pocket was hardly a bundle of laughs, certainly not enough to make up for what was missing. I've always liked variety. I've never been one for stagnating in one place for any length of time."

"Oh, very true. It didn't occur to you to tell me any of this before you left?" 

Off-balance, Bodie looked up, aware that a year ago Doyle would have been in mid-tirade by this stage of the conversation. "There's no point raking over the ashes. Not that we didn't have some good times," he conceded. "D'you remember - ?" He found he couldn't do it after all, adding quickly, "At least we packed it in before it got nasty." 

Doyle subjected Bodie's face to a minute scrutiny, as if seeing him for the first time. "Yes, you did," he agreed without emphasis.

"Reminiscing doesn't sit well with my new life - or yours." Only then did Bodie acknowledge that he didn't want to hear about Doyle's life since he had left, and especially not who Doyle might be sharing it with. "How did you find me?" The important why he had no intention of asking.

The silence lasted for so long that he wondered if Doyle had heard him. When the shorn head rose Bodie saw nothing untoward on the bearded face, nothing at all in fact.

"Cowley found you. I'm strictly the messenger boy. He wants to see you. Tomorrow morning if you can make it. He knows," Doyle added, a harder edge to his voice, "that you can make it."

"Why?"

His ankle propped on his knee, Doyle gave a humourless grin. "You're slowing down. That should have been your first question. Seems he's been missing you."

"You've never been a messenger boy in your life."

"Times change."

"What does he want?" demanded Bodie, shaken by the acceptance in Doyle's voice.

"CI5 has a security leak which makes Niagara Falls look like a dripping tap. Cowley thinks that between us we can plug it. CI5 aren't the only ones with a security flap on, you see." 

"I see all right, but he's wrong. I've finished with CI5. Would you like another coffee before you go?"

Needing to move, Doyle was already on his feet, prowling over to inspect the view but seeing nothing as he stared through the window. "I told him that's what you'd say. I must know you better than I thought."

"Better than I thought, too."

Having had some practice, Doyle ignored that dig. "If Cowley's desperate enough to ask for help, the least you can do is turn him down in person." Halfway across the room, freedom in sight, he swung round, the question dragged from him. "Is it because you don't want to work with me again?"

The sheer effrontery of the suggestion almost deprived Bodie of breath. "That's the least of my worries," he replied evenly. "I've already told you, I've finished with CI5 and everyone connected with it." He didn't flinch under the intimidating scrutiny of the sunglassed face, studying his own image in the dark lenses.

"You can tell Cowley that yourself. What are you living on?" Doyle asked, although he already knew the answer from the financially orientated resume.

"Money. Enough to keep me in comfort."

"I can see that much," conceded Doyle, having noticed the exquisite cut of the cream trousers and half-unbuttoned cotton shirt with its Jermyn Street label. I could never get him to unfasten more than the first three buttons, even in a heat wave. Good for Inger.

Inger...

"If it's Inger you're worried about," said Doyle, choosing his words with care, "don't. There's no need. We won't be out on the streets as we knew them. This will be an undercover op. investigating our own. We won't even be doing any of the leg work. Ostensibly we're reuniting to offer our expertise for an in-house training programme and to take some of the administrative load off Cowley's shoulders. We'll be doing it, too, make no mistake. At the same time we do a lot of digging through records and the odd interview. Very, grubby, very safe and very necessary."

"And you agreed?" Surprise eroded Bodie's mask of indifference.

"Someone has to do it, why not the best there is? I can't play cowboys and indians all my life." Holding the brooding, dark gaze Doyle unzipped his jacket, holding the edges apart. "See, I'm unarmed." Because Cowley isn't convinced I won't shoot my foot off. I've lost my edge, mate and if you do come back it'll take you about ten minutes to realise as much. He had accepted that as part of the price for Bodie's return and was braced for his partner's contempt; he found only a wounding indifference.

Hands in his trouser pockets, Bodie was oblivious to the silence which had fallen, finding it difficult to push his obtrusive awareness of Doyle away as he became increasingly entangled in memories he had spent a year denying; of a loyalty owed not to ideals or the faceless masses but to a man - until Cowley fed them to the wolves once too often. Or perhaps because he proved himself to be human and therefore fallible. Bodie didn't know. The power game had finally lost its point when he killed some poor nameless sod from MI6 who was only obeying orders.

No longer able to accept Cowley's god of expediency for the sake of the greater good, Bodie had still found it harder in some ways to walk out on the Scot than Doyle, even if his reasons had been different. His sense of betrayal had been identical. But then I'd been wandering in the Enchanted Forest for too long, clapping my hands and expecting Tinkerbell to live.

Bad choice of image, that. A boat on the river, patch on a pair of jeans and a dead security man very little different from us. Not that we ever had the chance to find out. Funny, I can still remember the beginning of Philippa's phone number.

"Cowley asked for me specifically?" Bodie asked, frowning slightly. The knowledge that there was another rotten apple in the barrel would be crucifying him, and if he lost anyone because of it... Caught by loyalties he preferred to pretend didn't exist, he scowled, accepting that he would do the job. But on his terms. He was damned if he'd work with Doyle again.

"Specifically. You're about the only person he's prepared to trust."

"Come off it."

"The first breach came months after you left."

Satisfied by that explanation, Bodie nodded. "How come you're in the clear?"

It was the next obvious question. Oddly enough it hadn't occurred to Doyle that Bodie would doubt him, not on that score. "I've been away from HQ for a while. I've only just got back."

"Undercover?" His gaze flicking over Doyle's cropped head, Bodie felt inexplicably relieved to know there was good reason for it, and for the muted manner where he had been accustomed to vitality and a blazing life force. A lengthy undercover job was sometimes hard to leave behind when you rejoined the real world.

"In a manner of speaking. Will you see him?"

"I suppose so," Bodie conceded grudgingly, wishing Doyle would leave so he could get drunk.

"I'll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning."

"Make it closer to ten. We're getting disturbed nights at the moment."

As if on cue a wail rent the air. Doyle's saucer-like gaze moved from the direction of the sound to the man in front of him.

In one triumphant moment Bodie knew how to ensure his freedom, seizing it with gratitude.

"It's OK," he called, hurrying as he heard a door open, "I'll see to him. Back in a minute," he promised Doyle before heading for Inger's bedroom. 

After a few minutes of activity, Bodie bundled the soiled nappy into a plastic sack, his nose wrinkling with distaste. But the experience had been worth it for the expression on Doyle's face. The gullible sod thought the kid was his, therein his salvation. Ray didn't poach - not married birds, nor unmarried mums, his reasons owed wholly to self-preservation but deeply ingrained for all that.

The unpalatable task finished, Bodie scrubbed his hands, viewing his puce and hiccupping saviour with a more tolerant eye.

"A security blanket, that's what you are," he murmured, conveniently forgetting his initial comments about Inger's sister, who had been inconsiderate enough to have appendicitis only three weeks after producing a bouncing baby boy, or Inger who had volunteered to look after him.

Picking Colin up again, Bodie watched with resignation as the podgy face sought out the warmth of his body, dribbling a little. "I suppose you're bloody well hungry, too," he said with morose resignation. The little bugger did little but sleep, shit and eat, and not necessarily in that order. The only time he displayed any vivacity was at four in the morning. Bodie could understand why Annie wasn't in any hurry to collect her son; she was probably desperate for a rest.

A gurgle of laughter made him look up sharply, but it was only Inger.

"What's so funny?" he growled, on the defensive in the face of her malicious grin.

"I was just wishing Ray had come calling four days ago. I thought nothing would induce you to touch Colin after that first time?"

"There's an exception to every rule," Bodie muttered, handing the vaguely burbling Colin over with some relief. Coping with his demands wasn't a problem but it was often messy, always time-consuming and he didn't enjoy doing it. "You aren't going to claim this hasn't dented your maternal yearnings," he added with more spirit.

"What yearnings? And wipe that smirk off your face. I can't wait for Annie to take him back. Only another two days," she gloated.

"I thought she was coming out of hospital tomorrow afternoon?"

"I wish she was. Ray's still here." Watching Bodie's face tighten, Inger thought the better of what she had been about to say. "If you're going to make an evening of it, could you take Ray out somewhere? This one usually starts at four-thirty and I haven't your knack of getting back to sleep."

"Doyle's just going. Look," he added impulsively, "leave whatever Colin needs out, or marked in the fridge. I'll have him in my room tonight. The odds are that I'll be working full-time after tomorrow."

Inger gave him a sharp glance but forbore to comment. "I'll leave the instructions out. Are you going back to CI5?"

"Possibly."

"You can tell me about it tomorrow, if you want to."

"And if I don't?" Bodie sounded curious rather than challenging.

"Then that's fine, too." Her chin brushing the sparse down on Colin's head, she smiled. "Sometimes it can help to talk things out, you taught me that. I'd like to return the favour. I don't think I would have made it through those first few weeks without you."

"The bad times are over," Bodie told her brusquely, uneasy as he always was when caught out in an act of kindness.

"For me, maybe. Are you sure yours haven't come back?"

Aware he had underrated Inger's powers of perception yet again, Bodie froze but he owed her better than a lie. "No," he replied from the doorway, "I'm not."

He paused in the hall, needing a moment to regroup his defences before he returned to the fray. All set to leave England for good, meeting up with Inger had done more than keep him sane, it had kept him alive. Bodie knew he wouldn't have survived a week in South America. His years in CI5 had changed him and with South America swarming with fervent national amateurs, a professional mercenary would have his work cut out to stay alive. He and Inger living together had been a mutual convenience, undemanding company combined with a warm, friendly body to turn to in the night whilst they licked their wounds. They had both suffered through partings from lovers, although he had been careful she should never suspect the identity of his. He'd had no wish to talk about Doyle, or even to think about him. While he hadn't been able to stop thinking about him at first, in time he had managed it. It had helped that Inger had needed him. Bodie needed to be needed.

The arrangement had given them both a period of calm in which to pick up the emotional pieces. They had made few demands of each other, having very different lives and interests. As Inger had found her feet, the ties binding them had eased. She had moved into her own room months ago, both of them seeking bedmates elsewhere if they chose while content to remain flatmates. In a fortnight Inger would be moving out to spend her last month in England with her parents prior to flying out to Toronto to begin a year's teaching exchange. His tenancy of the flat ran out in September. Bodie hadn't planned to renew it. He hadn't decided what he would do, save that he would stay in England. He couldn't return to the mercenary life and the Army wouldn't want him. He had been toying with the idea of taking up a friend's offer of a partnership in a gymnasium. Only now did he admit to the restlessness which had been growing in him over the last six months, his purposeless existence beginning to grate on him. It had been too easy to drift with the current, private, if illegal, poker games and his savings enabling him to live in comfort.

Now Cowley wants me back. Bloody civil service, Bodie thought, admitting that the matter had never been in any real doubt.

About to return to Doyle, he paused and went into Inger's room to collect Colin, who uttered a faint protest at being unceremoniously elevated before he settled down again. Entering the sitting room with every appearance of ease, Bodie found Doyle still standing by the window. Something in the tense quality of his stillness gave Bodie a distinct feeling of satisfaction.

"Sorry about that," he said with a breezy lack of sincerity. "Right, I'll see you about ten o'clock tomorrow."

"That's - " Turning, Doyle froze when he saw Bodie wasn't alone. Then he saw Bodie smile with proprietorial pride at the downy head tucked in the corner of his arm. The pain was so acute that it could have been a real knife twisting in him. As if he's been doing it all his life. He's had time to learn the knack, Doyle reminded himself sickly. "How old is- ?" He could not finish the question.

"Nearly a month," replied Bodie, every inch the casually proud father.

Doyle stared fixedly at the opposite wall. Nine months plus about four weeks plus time to impregnate and conceive. Bodie didn't waste much time after leaving me. Correction, he didn't waste any time. Very cost efficient. And not at all in character, he conceded dully, finally accepting that it was over. Bodie might give the impression of being an amoral bastard, but if he had accepted responsibility for the - boy or girl? Don't ask - child he wouldn't be about to dump mother and progeny in favour of a slightly used ex-bedmate. Not lover, bedmates, he insisted fiercely, needing to remind himself of the distinction.

"Boy or girl?" he heard himself ask, turning the knife.

"William," said Bodie, as if surprised there could be any doubt.

Aware in some distantly connected part of his brain that something was wrong with this image of the settled family man, Doyle didn't trust himself to pursue the point, not when the evidence stood in front of him.

"At least he'll be luckier than you were in your old man," he said with difficulty. "I'll see you tomorrow."

It wasn't until he had shown Doyle out and closed the front door behind him that Bodie realised this was the first emotional battle he had ever won with Doyle. It wasn't so hard. Having accepted he would work miracles for Cowley, why shouldn't he work with Doyle again? Free himself once and for all.

Discovering he had a large glass of scotch in one hand Bodie set it down untouched. In the early days he had almost gone that route. Besides, if he was to see Cowley tomorrow he would need all his wits about him.


	6. Chapter 6

SIX

 

Morning proved to be a bitter-sweet occasion, Bodie having to force himself to respond naturally when Doyle arrived promptly at ten o'clock.. It was a too familiar routine, only the emotions having changed.

Keeping conversation to a minimum during their journey, Bodie could feel an unaccustomed tension tightening his neck and shoulders and made a conscious effort to relax. The site of the headquarters was new to him but he saw little of the interior, Doyle escorting him in through an unmarked side door with no more than a wave to the uniformed figure on the security desk, passing through swing doors, up four flights of stairs, before pausing at an unmarked door.

"Cowley's office."

"You're not coming in with me?"

"No point," said Doyle, who had yet to look at Bodie. "This is between you and Cowley. Besides, you don't need me, remember?"

Bodie found himself inside Cowley's office without time to ponder what Doyle had said. Meeting the light blue eyes in the lined face, he straightened his shoulders and forced himself to concentrate.

 

There was a five minute delay between Cowley summoning him and Doyle arriving to collect his erstwhile partner.

"Sorry, sir. I got caught by Brian."

"About your training schedule, I presume. How's it working out? No problems?"

"No, sir." Knowing Cowley would learn the truth when he read the reports, Doyle lied anyway. 

"Good. Bodie here has consented to rejoin CI5 on the same terms and conditions as yourself. Take him to Administration, will you. I'll call round to see you both at your flat with the remainder of the files this evening. That's all, gentlemen."

Cowley frowned as the door closed behind them, aware of the overt antagonism in Bodie's manner when he glanced at his ex-partner. If this complication fouls up the investigation I'll - Have to accept it, he reminded himself with a grimace, knowing he held Bodie and Doyle by very tenuous ties. The bait for each man had not been the needs of CI5 or himself but the chance to see each other, whatever they chose to tell themselves.

 

"So you're back on the sunny side of the street," remarked Doyle, heading down the corridor at a brisk pace without bothering to check that Bodie was following him.

"As you see. The terms and conditions are an improvement, I must say. Given our new status I thought Cowley would have us working for shirt buttons. Flat, car, increase in pay - I half wondered if he was going soft."

"No doubt he managed to reassure you," said Doyle without much interest.

It rankled, but Bodie was content to bide his time. "In no uncertain terms," he agreed placidly. "He doesn't change, does he."

Resenting the rueful affection with which Bodie spoke of Cowley, a warmth which had once been his, Doyle paused by the swing doors which led to the Administration area. "Everyone changes. I'll see you later."

The beginnings of a frown on his face, Bodie watched Doyle walk away, trying to pin-point the change which bothered him most in his ex-partner.

 

Possessing the documentation to prove he was back on the side of the angels and grateful he had avoided ex-workmates, who were bound to ask awkward questions for which he had no answers as yet, Bodie was disconcerted to find Doyle waiting for him at the security desk which guarded the way back into the nerve centre of CI5.

"Afraid I was going to make off with the petty cash?"

"Cowley's orders," replied Doyle flatly as he set off for the car park. "He said your car wouldn't be available until tomorrow. You need a lift home."

Old habits dying hard, Bodie found himself following the other man, concentrating on the rise and fall of Doyle's trainers, too aware that the familiar lure of Doyle's arse - as blessedly perfect as ever - would undo his resolve. 

"When do you start retraining?" Doyle asked, unlocking the Ford Escort l.6S he had been allocated.

"Tomorrow. I can't say I'm looking forward to seeing Brian again. Cowley said you'd be spending time in the gym, too - but on a different schedule," said Bodie, failing to hide his curiosity.

"That's right." The two and a half days Doyle had spent with Macklin and his staff might have been paced very differently from his previous refresher courses - Macklin's manner different, come to that -it still felt as if it was killing him. So much for believing I kept in shape.

"It seems funny that I wasn't asked to sign the Official Secrets Act," mused Bodie, remembering the mass of forms he had had to complete.

"Why, wasn't once enough for you?"

The car motionless at traffic lights, Bodie looked across the small space between them. Waiting until he was certain he had Doyle's full attention, he allowed his gaze to roam with a slow deliberation, lingering a little when he reached Doyle's denim-moulded groin. He glanced up in time to see Doyle's mouth thin. 

"More than enough," Bodie agreed. It was with some satisfaction that he realised this time round he was quite capable of holding his own. He did not choose to wonder why that should seem so important. Yet sitting in the enforced intimacy of the car, one arm on the ledge of the open window, felt too reminiscent of old times to be wholly comfortable. "When do we start the real work?" he asked abruptly, trying to contain the sense of loss which, with his anger at his own stupidity, was increasing in imperceptible surges.

"Cowley's bringing the rest of the files to my flat tonight," Doyle reminded him.

"The rest?"

"I got the first batch a couple of days ago. And having read them till I'm cross-eyed I can tell you they don't help. Not that I expected them to. If it was that easy we wouldn't be here."

"You're keeping files at your flat?" 

"Cowley's orders." Aware of the defensive note in his voice Doyle kept his attention on the traffic-congested road.

"That'll be nice when you have a break-in," remarked Bodie, wondering if the world had gone mad.

"It's a secure flat. Has a hidden safe as well as an obvious one."

"Come off it. Even we've managed the odd spot of breaking and entering in our time," snapped Bodie, impatient with both the mild-voiced man at his side and the memories which insisted on flooding back.

"Not this safe."

Bodie gave him a look of disbelief but forbore to argue the point. "So when do we start?"

"You're enthusiastic about the prospect of pushing paper. Cowley offered you a bonus for a quick result, has he?"

"No, but the sooner we start, the sooner it's finished and I can get back to living my own life. I've got more than myself to think of now, you know."

Doyle gave a winded sigh.

The next twenty-five minutes of the journey were conducted in silence, the car never managing to rise above ten mph, for all that Doyle took every available side road in an attempt to avoid the worst of the traffic; every taxi driver in London had the same idea.

"Pull up at the next chemist's, would you?" Bodie asked abruptly, remembering that he had promised Inger he would do some shopping on Annie's behalf.

"Why?" asked Doyle, but he was already easing the car into the nearside lane as he glimpsed an Underwoods logo farther up the High Street.

"Would you believe I want to buy something? Here will be fine. I won't be long."

Doyle watched him leave with something akin to relief, slumping as he absently flexed his right arm, which had been giving him trouble since his last session with Fields, Macklin's new assistant. Maybe this isn't such a bad idea of Cowley's, he tried to convince himself, the Bodie of now bearing little resemblance to the man he had worked, sweated, laughed and loved with. Time to let the past go. 

He forgot his own advice when Bodie returned, two vast carriers of disposable nappies in each hand. They should have looked incongruous, Bodie the least domesticated person he knew, instead, this further demonstration of how much had changed left Doyle pinned to the seat. Bodie had a new life, a life in which he could never have a part. Unlocking his cramped fingers from the steering wheel, he ignored the overcast sky and slid his sunglasses onto his nose.

"Nearly forgot these," remarked Bodie breezily. The packages were so large it took some manoeuvring to get all four on the back seat and floor; he resisted the temptation to ask Doyle for help. Sliding onto the passenger seat, he refastened his seat belt and waited.

"Are we sitting here for any particular reason?" he enquired.

"Not a thing." But Doyle took his time before driving off, dividing his attention between the road ahead and the driving mirror with an admirable if spurious devotion. "What will you tell Inger about this job?"

The carload of nappies notwithstanding, it took Bodie a moment to remember his supposed status as a family man. "Nothing, beyond the fact I'm back with CI5. She knows better than to ask too many questions. You must come to dinner one evening."

"Yes, I must," agreed Doyle. It was with some relief that he recognised the turning which led to Bodie's flat. "I'll see you at my place tonight. Do you need a lift?"

Bodie gestured to the MG sports car parked in front of them. "No. I'll see you about seven-thirty."

Wanting him gone, Doyle gave him an impatient look. "If you're expecting me to get out and open the door for you you'll have a long wait."

"I need your address. Very up market," Bodie remarked when Doyle supplied it. "What's the quickest route to you from here?"

"I couldn't tell you, I've only been there four days."

"Time for musical flats, was it?"

"Something like that," Doyle agreed, remembering that Bodie knew nothing of how he had spent their year apart. He intended to keep it that way. Bodie didn't need any more ammunition with which to shoot him down. He drove off the moment Bodie unloaded the car.

 

Cowley stayed only thirty minutes that evening. Bodie would have preferred to leave with him but able to think of no face-saving explanation for his departure, he stayed. As Doyle disappeared to see Cowley out, he sat back, only then taking in his surroundings. The freshly painted walls and spacious room offered no intimacy, waiting for their new occupant to imprint his personality on it.

"George didn't stay long, did he," Bodie remarked upon Doyle's return. "Though I think you hastened him on his way when he heard there was nothing stronger than coffee to drink. Have you taken the pledge?"

"Haven't had time to go shopping."

Glancing around the room, which was devoid of all but the most basic items of furniture, and with none of the friendly clutter he associated with any home of Ray Doyle's, Bodie gave a disdainful sniff. "You've been too busy unpacking, I suppose. Is there any chance of some tea before we start work? I'll need some refreshment if we've got to wade through this lot."

"D'you still take milk and sugar?"

"Of course. There wouldn't be anything to eat, would there?" Bodie added absently, already flicking through the top file.

"I'll check," said Doyle vaguely.

It was with some surprise that he discovered the supply of frozen meals stored in the freezer, knowing he wasn't responsible for purchasing them. Iron rations for the busy troops were obviously standard practice now. With his previously treasured belongings in storage, Doyle felt no more than a lodger in these undeniably elegant surroundings. The microwave would've been handy in the old days, he mused, his attention divided between the instruction manual and the details printed on the back of the frozen pizza. Occupying himself with making the tea, he was in no hurry to return to the other room, turning his thoughts to the task Cowley had set them.

Doyle had spent each evening studying the files in his possession. They made depressing reading, too many names absent from the list: Cook, Abbott, Croxley, Foxton, Reynolds and Peterson were dead; Lewis, Susan and Allison invalided out; Lucas, McCabe, Benny, Turner and Jacks amongst those who had opted out. Add Bodie and himself to the list and it left CI5 short of twenty of its most experienced agents, fourteen of them from the A Squad. The numbers had been made up of course, but too many of the new intake were on the B Squad or as green as grass. To add insult to injury a good half of them were on the list of suspects.

As if that wasn't bad enough, the back-up staff had trebled in number with computer, research, medical, secretarial and clerical personnel. There was even an office junior. Giving a wry grin as he found some cutlery, Doyle wondered how Cowley taken the news that CI5, like Special Branch and MI6, were expected to employ school leavers for clerical jobs, on the principle that they wouldn't have formed any political bias yet. The massive increase in CI5's funding must have blunted Cowley's arguments, but then bureaucracy was inevitable when any organisation expanded. Like it or not CI5, while not strictly a part of the civil service, was wholly reliant upon government goodwill for funding. One day in the luxurious permanent headquarters had been enough to give him some idea of the extra money which must have been made available.

"This isn't cordon bleu, but it should fill a hole," he announced, returning to the other room to find Bodie deep in the files. Taking up his own plate, he realised he wasn't hungry. "What do you make of it so far?" He nodded to the folders.

"There's a lot of new blood," said Bodie, clearing his plate with rapidity. "It came as a shock to see the hit list for the last year. Cook was a good bloke."

"Right."

Bodie gave Doyle's downbent face a quick glance. "How's June managing?"

"About the same as any other young widow with two kids, I imagine."

"You don't see her?"

"No," replied Doyle evenly. "It's difficult to keep in touch with someone who blames you for their husband's death, and who remembers the afternoon you broke the news to them every time she sees you."

"Cowley didn't do that?" said Bodie in surprise, that just one of Cowley's more unenviable tasks as head of CI5.

"He thought the news might come better from me as we were old mates. Not the first time he's been wrong. What do you think of the files?" added Doyle, turning the conversation from the personal with determination.

"It's too soon to tell. What are the new intake like?"

"I dunno," said Doyle, abandoning his pretence of eating. He passed his plate to Bodie without a thought. "I haven't seen much of them."

"How come?"

"Because I've been away from HQ," Doyle reminded him. "I don't propose to waste energy on the old-timers like Jax, Murph and Ruth until we've checked out everyone - and I do mean everyone - else. If any of them were going to sell the Squad short it wouldn't be to the Press. Besides, none of them had had access to all the information."

"No one has from what I can make out," said Bodie, viciously flattening a pea beneath the prongs of his fork. "Except Cowley, of course. I agree, we forget the old timers - and him - and bugger his disapproval. There is one bloke I'd like some more information on though - I did a bit of checking this afternoon." His expression was uncompromising as he set his plate down. "His bank records make interesting reading."

"I'm all for easy solutions. Who is it?" asked Doyle, cradling his mug of tea between his hands, needing the spurious sensation of warmth.

"You."

Oblivious to the tea which slopped over his fingers, it was a moment before Doyle spoke. "You pulled my bank records?" he said with care, wanting to be certain he hadn't misunderstood.

"Of course. Cowley made it clear we have authority to check on each and every member of staff. As far as I'm concerned that includes you. I started with the obvious - money. Or in your case, lack of. These statements make bloody funny reading." Bodie drew a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket and unfolded them.

"Really?" Gutted by the realisation that Bodie was accusing him of selling out, Doyle invited him to continue on some automatic level of calm.

"Don't give me that look of large-eyed reproach," snapped Bodie defensively. "Look at 'em, all the way back to last July. D'you have any idea how much movement there was in your account in the first quarter? You spent over six thousand pounds - all of it in cash. What the hell was going on?"

"Personal bills." His expression closed, there was an angry glint in Doyle's eyes.

"The hell they were. I know every bill you've ever had to pay - including the cash payments for garaging that unofficial Volvo you used to keep stashed away in Fulham."

Doyle stared at him. "You knew about that?"

"Of course."

"There's no 'of course' about it. You were spying on me that long ago?"

"That's rich, coming from you. Elementary precaution," shrugged Bodie, not choosing to add that after his own experiences when Willis's men had been gunning for him he had wanted to satisfy himself that Doyle had his own safeguards. Typical Doyle, while the engine had been in immaculate condition, the car hadn't contained so much as a pea-shooter. In the circumstances Bodie hadn't felt able to remedy the deficiency.

"You sound like you're talking about Durex, not spying on your partner."

Disconcerted by the lack of bite in his companion's voice after a promising beginning, Bodie straightened in his seat. "Stop changing the subject. I checked these statements. Someone had the bite on you last Summer, whatever's happening now. Who and about what?"

"Why don't you ask Cowley?" suggested Doyle, his emotions back under control, the anger and hurt closed away where they couldn't reach him.

"Cowley knows?" Disbelief echoed in Bodie's voice.

"He knows." 

Taking a sip of cold tea, Doyle remembered his debriefing with the angry Scot as if it had been yesterday. Because Cowley had kept him so busy, free time had been at a premium; he'd spent nearly a thousand pounds on internal flights around Britain chasing after some of Bodie's old army and SAS mates. Bodie's informers had taken the rest; they had resented talking to an ex-copper and had refused to exchange so much as the time of day without cash upfront - and a lot of it. Martell and Landers had been the most expensive but it had been Landers who had told him of the recruitment drive in Holland. His trail ending in Amsterdam, Doyle had presumed Bodie lost to him in some mercenary troupe, hoping only that he had chosen the Middle East rather than Africa or South America. Punch-drunk with fatigue, having been short on sleep for weeks, and yet to come to terms with the fact he had no idea where Bodie might be, he had left his flat unsecured and paid the price for his carelessness. By the time Doyle had escaped from the convalescent home he'd been broke, his salary in that period unpaid, courtesy of Cowley, who wanted him back in CI5 and who assumed a lack of funds would succeed where other arguments had failed. His savings already spent and his precious Norton sold to pay Landers, Doyle had lived on the small sum raised on his pinball machine and sound system. Fighting to make his resignation a fact, homeless, with no transport and still frighteningly weak, he had come close to giving up then. Aware of the more permanent forms of persuasion at Cowley's disposal Doyle had not doubted that, if he deemed it necessary, the older man would use them. Knowing that there was no one who would notice his absence for some time if Cowley had him removed was the loneliest feeling in the world.

His personal and professional life in ruins, with no idea of how he could earn a living, the future held a bleak reality. Then Kate Holden had spotted him in Hyde Park, slumped on a bench until his shaking legs were ready to obey him. The rest was history. Doyle was recalled to his present when he refocused to see a dark figure looming over him.

"I'll be speaking to Cowley in the morning." 

The warning made Doyle give a humourless smile. "You do that."

Bodie continued to stare at him, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. "You're not in any kind of trouble?" he asked gruffly.

Doyle nearly laughed. "Trouble? I don't know the meaning of the word, mate."

"Then what the fuck...? You're broke! What happened to your savings? We all had a few thousand put by." Despite the standard complaints about CI5's rates of pay, it had not been difficult to save money. They had never had that much time to spend any and CI5 had taken care of all the expenses connected with accommodation and running a car.

"Not quite," said Doyle, refusing to react.

"No? These say differently," snapped Bodie, thumping the printouts in front of him. "And what happened to your pay? You haven't had any coming in since last September. What the hell has Cowley been playing at?"

"Why not ask him?" 

"I did," admitted Bodie sourly, still unable to place Cowley's reaction. Surprise? Pity? Neither made any sense. "He seems to be convinced you're in the clear."

"That must have been disappointing for you. Cheer up, even Cowley can be wrong on occasion."

Bodie's intended retort froze in his throat as against his will he became aware of Doyle's physical allure: long legs; hips still like tent pegs and an arse which Bodie had always regarded as perfection. The beige shirt Doyle wore was only half-fastened, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms wiry with muscle and covered in a soft auburn down. All visible expanses of skin were tanned the colour of pale honey. 

Bodie experienced a pang of pure lust. "Maybe," he muttered, before he exploded into speech again. "But if he is wrong you must be the only grass in history making a loss. What did you spend all your money on, Ray?" Despite himself, his concern seeped through the anger.

Doyle did not permit it to touch him. "You lost the right to ask me that a year ago. In case you've forgotten, we're here to work, not reminisce. I intend to start by vetting Joe Brown. He came on strength at the right time and judging from his file he's a sharp operator who's not averse to taking short cuts."

"I need to read the files," said Bodie, finding the change of subject something of a relief. "I want to run another set of comparisons on the pattern of the leaks. I'm at the gym all morning with Brian. Will I see you there?" He rose to leave. 

"I shouldn't think so," said Doyle, leading the way down the hall.

"I thought we were supposed to be working together?"

"You want help reading the files?"

"Of course not. But - "

"Then I'll be in touch in a few days. Night."

Finding Doyle's front door closed against him with a brisk finality, Bodie glared at it, controlling his urge to damage something - preferably Doyle. His emotions in a turmoil, his expression schooled, Bodie stalked off to his car, aware he had given Doyle the advantage again and cursing his inconvenient glands.

oOo

 

By the end of his first week in CI5 Bodie was battling against a strong sense of unreality, his life seemingly split into compartments, all of which required very different things of him. Initially he spent most of his time with Jack Crane and Macklin, soon appreciating the very different role that would be required of him. While he had returned to the fold, he was neither field agent, coordinator nor instructor but caught between three stools. Bodie didn't enjoy the sensation at all.

He took care to avoid old friends. He didn't want to get involved until he had a better idea of what he would be doing once he had completed this assignment for Cowley. The idea of failure didn't enter his head.

The only bright spot in all the confusion came when Annie duly collected her son. The flat seemed very quiet but Bodie didn't miss the faint smell of milk, disinfectant and talcum powder which had seemed to pervade the place during Colin's stay.

Having just spent a disconcerting two hours with Jack Crane, who had been taking him through the types of courses he would be expected to run - a prospect which filled Bodie with unease - he sought refuge in the squad room.

It took him ten minutes to locate it, yet to familiarise himself with all the facilities. His jaw dropped when he discovered the space and luxury available to agents now: comfortable armchairs and sofas; a snooker table; darts board; TV and video recorder. There was even a tiny kitchen. 

I'm in the wrong place, he thought, grateful there had been no one around to witness his surprise. Making himself a mug of tea, he wondered if he would be able to adapt to this new life. He had never gone in for much soul-searching or breast-beating. You did the best job you could and moved on. But always he had been motivated, if only to staying alive. Now? Away from the danger zone, what motivation was there?

"Well, well, well. I see rumour didn't lie. You are back with us."

Swinging round, Bodie found Murphy grinning at him as if this wasn't the first time they'd set eyes on each other in just over a year.

"Looks like it," he agreed guardedly, sinking onto a chair.

"What changed your mind?"

Unsurprised by the question, Bodie knew it was time to test the glib story Cowley had manufactured for him. Looking up with every appearance of candour, he met Murphy's disquietingly knowledgeable expression and decided to ignore it. 

"Apart from the fact I was pining for sight of your beautiful blue eyes - they are blue, I suppose? - a few things. I've always enjoyed telling people what to do. I'll be doing a lot of that soon." 

"I can 'ardly wait. So it's true, you're off the active list?"

"It's true."

"For good?"

"I've done my stint. Enough's enough."

"You?" said Murphy with disbelief.

"Me," Bodie confirmed.

His internal composure was rocked when he realised it was true. The adrenalin junkie was clean. While the last year hadn't been the best of his life, it had been enough to show him a glimpse of a world he had never known. In civilian life he could select a table at a restaurant without considering its defensive possibilities, make and keep a date, go for a drive without wondering if anyone was tailing him, undress in a heatwave... And contrary to what he had always supposed, in the main he hadn't found time hanging heavy on his hands. While nothing could make life seem so sweet as the knowledge you could be dead tomorrow, his time away from the firing line had shown him a freedom he had never known in his adult life before.

"Good god," said Murphy blankly, sitting on the first available surface, "I do believe you're serious."

Genuinely amused, not least with himself, Bodie smiled. "Very. It's not in character, I know. But it's true."

"Must be old age takin' its toll."

"Maybe. Jack Crane reckons I was suffering from a classic case of burn-out. He could be right. I've seen it happen to others, just didn't recognise the symptoms in myself. Thirty-four and I'm past it."

"Not you," said Murphy with confidence.

"Relax, I'm not looking for a bathchair just yet. But when enough people who know their jobs tell you the same thing you have to consider the possibility that they might be right. I've been living on the front line since I was sixteen. That's a long time."

Murphy eyed him curiously, knowing how rare it was for Bodie to be so open about himself. There wasn't a trace of self-consciousness in his voice either, so he had obviously come to terms with what had happened. Murphy was glad, Bodie one of the few people he both liked and respected. "But you're 'appy enough - to be back, I mean?"

Bodie grimaced. "I will be when Brian stops half-killing me."

"Getting old and flabby, that's your trouble," remarked Jax, arriving in time to hear Bodie's last remark. "Good to see you, mate."

"You, too. School's out, is it?" Bodie nodded in the direction of the young figures beginning to fill the room, their faces familiar only from the files he had been reading.

"Don't remind me," said Murphy with gloom. "It's my birthday next week. I'll be thirty-three."

"Shocking," said Bodie, rising to give a supple stretch, knowing he was at the peak of physical condition. The illusion was ruined when he grimaced, the action of stretching having rekindled the aches gained courtesy of Macklin. Correctly interpreting Jax's grin, he gave a bland smile.

"I shouldn't laugh too much, mate. I'm looking forward to seeing how you two shape up against me in the fullness of time."

Jax groaned. "Don't say we'll have you to face on the assessments?"

"You'd better believe it. And I know all the angles. I even invented some of them," said Bodie benignly. He was beginning to believe in his role-to-be himself, his enthusiasm stirred when he realised what would be required of him in his new career as an instructor. It wasn't going to be the sinecure he had anticipated.

"He's going to kill us," Murphy predicted mournfully.

"Who is? Anyone seen the milk?"

Glancing round, it took Bodie a moment to identify the newcomer from the many photographs he had been studying. Young, arrogant and supremely fit, Burrows was good-looking, too. Bodie felt a prickle of antagonism upon recognising one of Cowley's rising stars, Burrows clean as a whistle because he had come onto strength only six weeks ago.

"Me," he said with simple egotism. "Burrows, isn't it?" He held out his hand.

"That's right. And you are?" Burrows made no attempt to return the courtesy.

"Bodie," said Jax, looking amused. "Otherwise known as agent 3.7. He and his partner - "

" - are old news. You'll have noticed a few changes since your day," Burrows added to Bodie.

"Some." Stretching his legs out in front of him as he propped himself against a radiator, Bodie gave no sign that he had noticed the belligerence in the younger man's manner.

"Stands to reason that you would. I mean, this is a young man's game," continued Burrows.

"I wonder where that leaves us," murmured Jax to Murphy. "Ease up, Andy. You won't score any points off this one. Bodie has nothing left to prove."

"He does to me."

"That's your problem, son," murmured Bodie with a lazy smile.

"Time we had our noses back to the grindstone," said Jax with some haste, one hand on the younger man's arm. "Andy, the last I heard, Cowley was looking for you. Something about that report he wanted two days ago..."

"Where did Cowley find him?" demanded Bodie as Burrows and Jax left the room, the former's body language making it plain he was not in retreat.

"Andy's shaping up OK," said Murphy peaceably. "A bit over-eager to prove 'imself, but with luck 'e'll live long enough to grow out of it. 'E's good. The best we've had for a long time. But no one enjoys meeting a legend made flesh face to face. That's you," he added helpfully.

Bodie threw a cushion at him, the ensuing scuffle broken up only when they spilt a carton of milk.

"I see you're still as mad as ever. It's good to 'ave you back, even if you shouldn't be in 'ere. Admin. staff 'ave their own facilities," Murphy added righteously.

"Give me a break. I'm legit.," Bodie added seriously. "Cowley wants Doyle and me to work on some of the new intake while they're on the job. Help buck their ideas up a bit. I can see why," he added, frowning at the space Burrows had occupied.

"It takes an old bull to recognise a young hopeful," Murphy pointed out, slumped back in a chair, a fresh mug of coffee in his hand. "Don't let that lip fool you, Andy's all right. Not as good as me, of course," he added after a pause for thought. "So you and Ray will be cluttering up the place again." He made no attempt to hide his speculative look.

"Thanks." 

"'Ow does it feel to be back?"

"Fine," Bodie lied, aware he hadn't set eyes on Doyle for four days. Short of staking out Doyle's flat he didn't seem likely to either. Keep your mind on the job, he reminded himself. "We've lost a lot of good people one way and another. How have things been for you?"

"OK to disastrous," said Murphy frankly. "Too many funerals, though at least some got out in one piece. If you're talking about cases of burn-out, try Lucas and McCabe."

"They were having problems in my day."

"They got worse. It didn't 'elp when Mac's bird gave him the word - CI5 or 'er. 'E choose 'er."

"What are they doing now?" Bodie's tone took it for granted the two men would still be together.

"They set up a security firm - mainly industrial espionage and fraud. You know the kind of thing. They're getting more work than they can handle and loving every minute of it. Cowley bitched like mad but referred a few jobs their way in the beginning. Word soon spread. I'm surprised you didn't go in for something like that."

"La dolce vita for me, mate. I've had enough of working for a living. I may not have been back long but I can see how much the firm's changed."

Murphy gave him a brief, thoughtful glance. "Yes, and it 'as nothing to do with the new intake, posh offices or young Burrows. Morale is shot to 'ell, though we all pretend otherwise, and I can't put my finger on the reason. A few jobs 'ave gone sour, but that's par for the course. There's more inter-departmental friction, of course. Willis," he explained as Bodie raised an eyebrow in question. "Cowley 'olds things together but the effort is beginning to show more than it used to. 'E 'asn't had any 'elp since Barry Martin turned bad on 'im."

Aware of where Murphy's speculations were taking him, Bodie nodded, mentally congratulating Cowley on the cover story he had concocted. "What's kept you hanging on - or are you planning to up your grading?"

Murphy's look of horror spoke volumes.

"So why?" pressed Bodie, genuinely curious.

"I'm not sure. Some of the time I enjoy it, as for the rest... 'Abit, I suppose. It's a dirty job but someone 'as to do it," Murphy added with deprecating grin. "That aside, I don't know what else I'd do. I'd like to 'ang on for a few years more. Just 'ope I'll know when it's time to call it a day."

"You'll know," said Bodie with a certainty he hadn't felt since his resignation.

"I 'ope so." His expression sombre, Murphy visibly shook himself out of the mood. "Was great to 'ear you two were back."

"I can't think why," growled Bodie, who had never learnt to accept a compliment gracefully.

"Because you're good in whatever you do. You opting out last year," Murphy added abruptly, "it wouldn't have anything to do with Ray, would it?"

Murphy had been a good friend over the years and for that reason Bodie answered him, if with caution. "A little."

"I thought it might. I'm glad you've patched things up. You two made a great team. I know it's none of my business but it's nice to see Ray looking so -- "

"You're right, it's none of your business," said Doyle from behind them. "Come on 3.7, duty calls. We're due to see Cowley in three minutes." As Murphy turned, cool green eyes travelled over him. "You always were an old woman where gossip was concerned," Doyle added pleasantly before he disappeared from the doorway.

"'Asn't changed a bit, 'as 'e," Murphy remarked placidly, making arrangements to meet Bodie later that week for a drink. Neither man suggested inviting Doyle. 

Wondering as he strolled out of the squad room what it was Doyle hadn't wanted Murphy to say, Bodie resolved to find out at the earliest opportunity.

oOo

 

Having rejoined CI5 only because it meant he had the chance to see and work with Bodie again, trying to discipline himself to expect nothing else, Doyle soon realised the measure of his mistake. Their first meeting had been enough to kill the hope which stubbornly remained.

While he had always known Bodie had survived unpleasant episodes in his past by trying to cut them out of his life, Doyle had never expected to be accorded the same treatment. They couldn't meet without sniping at each other and the eyes which watched him seemed devoid of any emotion save contempt and mistrust. That stung, breaching the shields Doyle was working so hard to maintain around his emotions.

How many people did you meet who you could like, trust and love? But Bodie has Inger and his son to think of now...

It occurred to him that Bodie might be afraid he would try to make trouble with Inger, the thought like a nagging tooth. He tried to broach the subject, blurting out his thoughts with unusual clumsiness because he found the topic so painful as they drove back from a policy meeting with Special Branch. 

"About Inger, you're not worried she'll find out about us from me, are you?"

"I'm not worried about you at all," said Bodie coldly, barely skipping a beat. "We have something you and I never did."

Silenced, Doyle abandoned the car the moment Bodie pulled into the car park, leaving Bodie to make their report to Cowley. Heading for the gym, Doyle worked until he was exhausted, physical fatigue the only outlet he would permit his wayward emotions. While he conquered the anger, the hurt remained.

Borrowing a tape deck from headquarters, he took to spending any free time checking out the taped telephone calls, learning to identify the voices and speech patterns of agents, alert for any betraying changes. Analysing all he heard, he tried to make sense of the trivia, seeking any kind of a lead. He wanted the job finished before the job finished him.

oOo

 

Knowing Inger's brother would be arriving to collect her soon after eight, Bodie made a point of getting up early, the champagne for the Buck's Fizz on ice, the oranges squeezed and the roses on the table by the time Inger emerged. Determined to see her off in style, he gave no hint of his own inner turmoil, his flippant reassurances easing her look of tension. Only now did he realise how much he was going to miss her. Inger had become a friend, a good friend and he didn't have many of those.

When finally it was time to leave Inger ignored her impatiently waiting brother in the car below, torn between wanting to get the goodbyes over with and her concern for Bodie.

"Go on, love. Pete's right to be anxious. The suspension isn't up to much at the best of times. What have you got in those cases, bullion? Go on," Bodie repeated in a gentle tone. "We've said all the important stuff already. You're going to have a great time. CI5 will always know where to find me, whatever I'm doing, wherever I am. If you need me I'll be there."

"I know you will," she muttered crossly, determined that she wasn't going to make a fool of herself and cry. "I just want to say one thing first."

"About how wonderful I am?" he joked, putting an arm around her.

"I'm worried about you," she said simply.

"Me?" His astonishment genuine, Bodie's arm slid from her shoulders. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not and it's getting worse. You've changed since you rejoined CI5. I've heard you talking about Ray - and Cowley - as if they were the enemy. And don't glare at me like that," she added with spirit. "I know better than to pry but... Don't be afraid to let yourself care again, Bodie. It can be worth it." Unable to ignore Pete's irate blasts on the horn any longer, she gave Bodie's rigid figure a final hug and ran down the front steps to the car.

His hand falling to his side, Bodie's smile faded the moment the battered Fiat, its exhaust pipe drooping at a precarious angle, turned the corner.

It's not that she's wrong, it can be worth it, he conceded, but it can also destroy you. He had come close to letting Ray Doyle take over his life once and was determined it wasn't going to happen again.


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

 

His career within the Intelligence Services having made him aware of the potentially lethal consequences of complacency, Cowley ensured that Bodie and Doyle continued to be monitored. The report he received from Ross alarmed him to the point where, only three weeks after the two men had been reunited, he wondered if he should abandon his plans for one or both of them.

While accustomed to Kate Ross's gloomy pronouncements, he could not shrug off her view that Bodie was a powder keg awaiting a lighted match. Cowley treated her report on Doyle, whom she considered to be in danger of divorcing himself from reality, with a snort of derision. It was true that Doyle was uncharacteristically subdued, but the fact that Cowley had seen glimpses of the old Ray Doyle was enough to satisfy him that any behavioural changes stemmed from a conscious effort of will. Cowley intended to ensure that Doyle's will-power was channelled into areas more profitable for CI5.

Macklin's report was also a disappointment, Brian making it plain that both men had lost their cutting edge. Cowley had reluctantly conceded that Doyle would never achieve the requisite fitness for the A Squad again, but according to Macklin Bodie's problem was solely one of attitude. That was something Cowley had every confidence he would be able to rectify. Knowing the abilities and weaknesses of all his agents, he was under no illusions about Bodie and Doyle. But he needed them. Before he was nudged into retirement it was his intention that they should be firmly entrenched, both in the eyes of Whitehall and the Squad, as joint seconds in command. Cowley knew his replacement would be a Whitehall appointee from one of the other Intelligence Services; he had already approved two of the names proposed and was keeping a close eye on both men. He was determined to ensure that whoever took over responsibility for CI5 should have the best available back-up. After that it was up to the new appointee to win and keep the trust of the Squad. If he let them down or compromised CI5's hard-earned reputation in any way Cowley knew enough of Bodie and Doyle to be certain they would act to preserve the integrity of the Squad. Or he had been. Now? 

Tapping Ross's reports on the desk top, Cowley frowned. Her role had always been that of devil's advocate; at the moment he was inclined to rely upon old ties to rekindle both men's commitment to the Squad. With that aim in mind he wasted no time in seeing Bodie and Doyle - but separately. Neither meeting could be considered satisfactory.

Bodie had heard him out in a silence which had bordered on the insolent, the easy rapport they had enjoyed in the past gone. While Cowley regretted its loss on both a professional and personal level he had expected little else. For a self-confessed cynic Bodie had retained a remarkable level of trust; Cowley had watched that trust be eroded until finally it was worn away by the brutal realities of Intelligence work. As a man who gave his loyalties to individuals rather than ideals Bodie had chosen the wrong business. Knowing that had never stopped Cowley from making full use of the younger man's formidable skills.

Cowley's meeting with Doyle had been disconcerting, Doyle proving himself to be more perceptive than Cowley had bargained for. Rewinding the tape of their conversation, Cowley replayed a segment, a grim twist to his mouth.

"I expect your full commitment to your work, irrespective of any personal difficulties you may be experiencing." 

"Personal difficulties - ?"

"Don't fence with me, 4.5 - " Cowley frowned as he heard himself use Doyle's old call sign " - we both know I'm not referring to your change in status. If you're having trouble with Bodie, say so." 

"I've always had trouble with Bodie. Why should that have changed?" 

The note of suspicion was obvious. Cowley listened to his own swift retreat, having had no desire for Doyle to discover what he would undoubtedly regard as an unwarranted interference in his affairs.

"You always managed to overcome those difficulties in the past." 

"Maybe the novelty's worn off this time round." 

Switching off the tape Cowley realised he had lost much of his finesse in dealing with personnel. His skill had been blunted by his awareness of the quick passage of time. Facing mandatory retirement in just over fifteen months, he was determined that CI5 should be as stable and well-protected as he could make it prior to his successor taking charge.

Of his own future Cowley preferred not to think, retirement a bleak exile which the occasional committee meeting and uninterrupted games of golf seemed unlikely to fill.

oOo

 

Throwing himself into mastering the new skills required of him with a dedication that surprised many who thought they knew him, Bodie was motivated by the ignoble determination to equal if not beat Doyle in every endeavour. It left little opportunity for private reflection. Bodie was careful not to think of that as an added bonus.

He made time to begin to vet the extensive list of suspects, content to let the enigma of Doyle's bank account rest - for now. Whatever he might have told Doyle, at no time had it occurred to him that his ex-partner might be on the take. But the question of Doyle's shaky finances continued to niggle at the back of his mind, as did much else about the other man.

An increasing source of irritation was how little contact he had with Doyle; they passed in corridors, found themselves being briefed by Cowley, attending the same meeting or retraining lecture, but somehow they were never alone together. We even make appointments to meet. Not that Bodie wanted to be alone with Doyle, but it annoyed him that he was never given the opportunity to demonstrate as much.

Despite his exceedingly busy schedule Bodie's sense of isolation grew for all that he was on familiar territory amongst a number of familiar faces. It didn't occur to him that the months he had spent learning to live as a civilian might be partly responsible. He was content to blame everything on Doyle, his determination to have his discontent out with him growing. By the end of his first month in CI5 Bodie's curiosity refused to be stifled any longer.

"How come I'm not retraining with Doyle?" he asked Macklin, hoping the question sounded casual.

"Because you won't be working with him. If it hasn't dawned on you already your training is geared to passing your skills on. You're not doing badly either," Macklin added dispassionately, having privately conceded that perhaps Cowley knew what he was doing after all.

"That doesn't explain why - "

"The other reason is because I say so. I remember you two. This time round it isn't a competition. Save your breath," Macklin advised him kindly, "you'll need it for what's coming up next. You've been sitting on your assets for too long, old son." 

While privately admitting the truth of that, Bodie was determined to discover what Doyle had been sitting on. He didn't like mysteries, particularly when they concerned Ray Doyle.

oOo

 

As the days progressed Doyle became more expert at tucking his inconvenient emotions away. Despite welcoming overtures from old workmates still on the Squad he avoided all but the most minor of social contacts, aware that he couldn't afford the distraction. But it was hard, far harder than he had anticipated. Work helped and Doyle immersed himself in it until he woke, slept and dreamt CI5 - most of the time. With the Squad caught up in policy and budgeting reviews Cowley had thrown his new deputies in at the deep end. Guarding his tongue and his temper, Doyle began to learn the techniques required to deal with paper-orientated bureaucrats, few of whom had any conception of what it could be like on the streets their chauffeurs drove them to work along. While he ruffled a number of feathers Doyle began to win the results CI5 - or at least George Cowley - wanted.

It was another kind of power, to be a small part of the decision-making body responsible for shaping the fate of others and Doyle began to understand its potent addiction for some people. For his own part he never forgot that this was an undercover role Cowley had created for them; while he had always excelled in those he had never been required to enjoy them.

After about a month it occurred to Doyle that his ostensibly empty timetable was resulting in him working a sixteen-hour day while he tried to do three jobs at once; he had the uneasy suspicion he was doing none of them well.

Despite the fact that the majority of the time was spent amongst familiar faces it was one of the bleakest and loneliest periods of his life. Needing some kind of a prop, Doyle began smoking again, a habit he had abandoned at the age of thirteen. If Macklin or Henderson found out they would give him hell. He could even recognise the stupidity of it himself, but he needed something to get him through the lengthy days and seemingly endless nights. He didn't do drugs, he was already drinking more than was wise and sex...

Having been impotent for just under a year, Doyle had stopped trying to believe the comforting fantasy that the medication the hospital had put him on initially was responsible. He'd been off the pills for over six months. Besides, his body had failed him two months before he'd been shot. It no longer seemed the devastating catastrophe it once had. In fact his mood was such that the morning he woke to sticky sheets produced no euphoria, nor even relief. He could remember all too clearly who had fuelled his pre-dawn fantasy.

His confidence at rock bottom, Doyle did his best to stifle his unconscious, the fantasies too cruelly opposite to his reality. His body refused to co-operate. While, of necessity, he gave his errant flesh the relief it demanded, it didn't occur to him to seek a kinder lover than his good right hand. He couldn't contemplate failing with Bodie and had had his fill of meeting the contempt of a stranger - or worse still, their pity.

Telling himself that Benson & Hedges were less bother, Doyle immersed himself in a ruthless exercise programme and slept badly.

oOo

 

Increasingly frustrated by how little he saw of his ex-partner, it was with some satisfaction that, strolling into the gym late one Thursday afternoon towards the end of August, Bodie found himself face to face with Doyle, Fields at his side. From Doyle's tousled damp hair and sweat-stained tracksuit he had obviously had a hard workout; he looked tired, the plastic insert in his cheekbone very much in evidence, as was always the case when he had exhausted himself.

"Evening, Doyle. Leaving already? I want a word with you. Night, Paul," Bodie added in dismissal.

A confrontation with Bodie the last thing he wanted at any time, least of all now when he was unsteady with exhaustion, Doyle took a calming breath.  
"Then we'll talk," he said mildly, turning to his companion. "No sense you hanging on, Paul. Thanks for your help." 

"You're welcome. I'll see you in the locker room so we can go through your results," Fields added, his shrewd gaze remaining on Bodie.

"No, get off home while you can, mate. I'll see you tomorrow." Only then did Doyle appreciate the concern behind the offer. It made him add, "Bodie and I used to be teamed." 

Fields's look of surprise betrayed him but he nodded and left the gym, the sprung door closing silently behind him.

Returning his attention to the man in front of him, Doyle recognised all the signs of banked down anger in Bodie and wondered what he was supposed to have done this time. "I thought we had a meeting set up at my place for tomorrow evening. Have you found a lead?" It required some effort on his part not to sag, his limbs leaden, his muscles aching fiercely. Paul had been right, he should have stopped an hour ago.

"Not a thing," said Bodie, still barring the exit as he made a comprehensive survey of Doyle.

"Then there's nothing to discuss." 

"No? I can understand why you've been hiding yourself away. How the hell did you make it through your last physical? No wonder Cowley's had you off the streets, I've seen more impressive biceps on old ladies. What have you been doing to yourself?"

Knowing his own level of fitness better than he had ever done, Doyle remained unruffled by the slur; his current exhaustion was due to stupidity, not a lack of stamina. "This and that. Excuse me." He stepped forward half a pace, his wish to pass clear.

"Why, what have you done?" returned Bodie unoriginally, standing firm and leaving Doyle with the option of staying where he was or of physically removing him - if he could.

"I want a shower and a meal," replied Doyle evenly. Recognising all the signs of Bodie spoiling for a fight, he was determined that he wasn't going to allow himself to be needled. His resolve would have been the greater but for his suspicion he wouldn't last five minutes in a fight with the other man at the moment.

"Yeah, I should think you'd have to go careful," Bodie said after some consideration. He watched a muscle tighten in Doyle's jaw with satisfaction before adding briskly, "If we're going to be working together I need to know you're still capable of guarding your own back, never mind mine." 

"We're not on the streets now. We're not likely to be again either." 

"That's your excuse, is it? Or is it because you know you wouldn't last three seconds with me?"

"I never had much difficulty in the past," snapped Doyle, his resolution forgotten, his chin lifting in response to the other man's scornful survey.

"I'd like to see you try it on now." 

"Come on, then," invited Doyle, gesturing to the mats. "Best of three falls." 

"If you think you can last that long," agreed Bodie with good humour, satisfied he had finally pierced his companion's air of detached superiority.

To Bodie's intense gratification he took the first fall within forty-five seconds. His knee in the small of Doyle's back, he tightened his choke-hold with a remorseless ease. Aware of the damage he could inflict if he chose to, he did not care that his emotions would not bear close scrutiny.

"That the best you can do, 4.5?" he taunted, his voice silken against the other man's rasping struggle to breathe. "You're not just soft, you're pathetic!" Maintaining the pressure he was exerting and perfectly balanced, he was very aware of the taut-muscled warmth beneath him as he waited for Doyle to concede.

His teeth clenched, his face congested, Doyle did so; he was in no hurry to resume the vertical, humiliatingly conscious that he needed all the time he could gain for himself. He began to re-evaluate his plan of attack, knowing he would need the advantage of surprise to have any chance against Bodie, who looked to be in the peak of physical condition.

Bodie avoided his drop kick with ease, retaliating with a straight-arm lock against the joint which it cost Doyle dear to escape.

"Sloppy, Doyle. Very sloppy." 

Bodie came at him with a speed Doyle just managed to counter, blocking on his crossed wrists the kick which would have put him out before flicking himself onto his feet, grimacing as a deep-seated pain made itself felt down his back. Too winded to follow that move through with any degree of success, he backed away, concentrating on controlling his breathing, aware that tension rather than exertion was responsible for this breathlessness. Bodie's contempt made Doyle bite his inner cheek, the expression in his own eyes hardening. 

Enough is enough, he decided coldly.

Aware that Bodie, for reasons best known to himself, was out for blood, Doyle settled down, blocking and defending until he could create an advantage for himself. It was a style of combat remote from that he had employed in the past and it did little for his self-esteem. It was, however, necessary. The gym was deserted and despite himself Doyle was chillingly uncertain of Bodie's intent. He was conscious of the stupidity of allowing himself to be goaded into this level of workout before he was ready for it. But facing the contemptuous appraisal which had examined him in such insulting detail and found him wanting, pride had kept him silent.

Deserve all you get, Doyle told himself grimly, never having had any patience with false heroics - even his own. 

Minor handicaps notwithstanding, Doyle was far from conceding defeat, roused from the detached state he had been hiding behind. Having gained his second wind, his mind wholly on the action and inter-action of their bodies, he managed to give his opponent some anxious moments before his split-second lapse of concentration gave Bodie all the advantage he needed.

The blow to his solar plexus doubled Doyle over; a hammer-like force to his shoulder made him cry out as he slumped to his knees. His face against the mat, his torso twisted on the edge of agony, he knew he was finished, gasping out his defeat in red-streaked haze of pain. Bodie increased the pressure on the wrist lock, driving Doyle's arm farther up his spine, wrenching a sharp cry from him.

"Bodie, that's enough! If you have a problem I want to know about it. From what I've seen you have a problem." There was a distinct bite in Macklin's incisive voice. "Clean up. I'll meet you in my office in ten minutes. Ray, how bad is it?"

Giving Doyle's slumped and gasping figure a dismissive shove as he righted himself, Bodie ignored Macklin to stalk from the gym, his rage undiminished.

Ray isn't the only one who's gone soft, he thought savagely as he stripped and stepped under the shower. He had given Doyle openings in plenty and Ray had followed none of them through. As for Macklin... Maybe he has the hots for Ray. I've often wondered about Brian.

It was in that same sweet frame of mind that Bodie changed and went to keep his appointment with the instructor. Finding the office empty, he sullenly examined the wall charts. After five minutes he thought to check the folders on the desk, looking for some reference to Doyle. He found none and was on the point of leaving when Macklin entered the small, neat room.

"What's your problem, Bodie?"

"Do I have one?"

"From what I saw there's no question about it. You had Doyle down and finished but you didn't let up. Why?"

"Because I've seen him play possum too often in the past," shrugged Bodie, choosing not to remember Doyle's rasping sounds of pain. "If he's out of condition, which he is, I need to know about it." 

"You weren't in such great shape yourself a month ago." 

Angered by the reminder, the more so because he knew it to be true, Bodie stood a little straighter. "Good enough to take Doyle out." 

"Very righteous of you but I don't understand the reason for your concern. You and Doyle aren't partnered any more, nor are you on active call-out - or ever likely to be again. You're off the streets, which given your little display in the gym is just as well. Is your problem your change of status?"

It was a small part of it, although Bodie would have died rather than admit as much, least of all to Macklin. He wasn't accustomed to lacking a goal in life; staying alive had been all the motivation he had needed for years.

"Far from it," he replied coolly, presenting an impervious front to every line of attack. "Is that all you wanted me for?"

"For now," agreed Macklin. "But next time you want a full-scale workout come and see me first, eh?"

"Things have changed around here. How long has Doyle been under your protection?" Bodie's inference was clear.

"Not long enough, obviously. Don't tell me you're jealous?" added Macklin, unsurprised when he found himself alone in his office, the door swinging on its hinges after Bodie's precipitate exit.

 

Charged with anger and frustration, Bodie decided to spend a few hours checking out Mallors's current girl-friend, a journalist from one of the glossy magazines. Finding the girl and the three friends she was chatting with equally inane, he stopped eavesdropping within a short space of time. Bloody Sloane Rangers, he dismissed, casting a disparaging look around him. It was then that he realised the appellation was technically correct, the pub she had chosen only two doors away from the Royal Court Theatre. The wrought iron tables and chairs were packed with first year drama students but while the general area was crammed with exotically, if cheaply, dressed young figures, a small space surrounded his chair, his air of brooding menace deterring even the most self-absorbed. Bodie didn't notice, wondering sullenly why he had thought there would be any point to this surveillance of Venetia Roxby-Morton. 

What Mallors saw in her was a mystery. But then who understood what held one person to another and kept them bound together. 'Till death do us part.' Who needs it?

Tired of being an onlooker, Bodie left his curbside seat and the diesel fumes from passing taxis to find his car. The evening hot and sultry, the interior was like an oven, his shirt and cords clinging unpleasantly to him by the time he drove towards South Kensington, with no clear idea of his eventual destination. His empty flat held no appeal, nor did a pub or club. While he didn't want to be alone he couldn't be bothered to find himself a date for the night. Everywhere he looked he saw people together - lovers, families or groups of friends, all enjoying each other's company. Tense with resentment and an unacknowledged sense of loss, he began to relax as a little petrol-laden air came through the open windows when he managed to pick up speed. The drive demanding too little of his attention, Bodie's mind slid from one subject to the next but his thoughts insisted on returning to his major preoccupation, Doyle.

It was with no great sense of surprise, having circled Regent's Park twice, that Bodie found himself turning the car into Albany Street. Parking in the cobbled courtyard which led off it, he saw that the windows to Doyle's top floor flat were wide open. He was home then.

It's time we had a little chat, he decided grimly. And if Ray has company he can get rid of them.

 

Still dopey with sleep, having fallen into an exhausted doze the moment he sat down, Doyle stared at the man on his doorstep with a sense of inevitability, wondering why he should have assumed the worst was over. Inconspicuously he flexed his back, trying to ease the fierce pain there; he succeeded only in making it worse.

"I thought you said you had nothing to report," he said by way of a greeting, finding it difficult to concentrate. He had been dreaming about Bodie and happier times and woken to find him on the doorstep. 

Teach me to be careful what I wish for. 

It seemed odd to see Bodie in so few clothes - no jacket because the need to conceal the shoulder holster was gone. He wondered briefly if Bodie felt as naked without that slim leather strapping as he did. Then he wondered if Bodie knew how gorgeous he looked, even if his current expression would curdle milk at three paces.

"I haven't. I want a word with you." Bodie barrelled past him, coming to a halt only when he stood in the middle of the sitting room, staring at nine stacked tea chests.

Doyle followed him with some reluctance. "It didn't occur to you that I might not want a word with you, I suppose?"

Swinging round, Bodie's retort died unvoiced. He supposed there were those who could remain unmoved by what Doyle had to offer. Unfortunately he had never been one of them even when, as now, Doyle was dressed like a model for a charity shop. The oil-stained cream shirt looked at least three sizes too large, spilling from the unfastened waistband of jeans so threadbare that anyone else would have put them out of their misery. Softened by age and wear, the faded denim hugged every line and curve; if Doyle was wearing anything but skin beneath them it wasn't apparent. His feet and forearms bare, all visible expanses of flesh were a honey-toasted brown, the silver-flashed close-cropped beard seeming to accentuate his tan. Standing in the pool of light cast by the one lit lamp, rubbing the back of his neck, he looked barely awake and fuckable, Bodie decided hungrily, speculating on how far the tan extended. Then Doyle moved and Bodie glimpsed the purpling marks splotching his wrist and inner arm.

About to refer to their workout, not to apologise, of course, but it couldn't hurt to ask, Bodie watched with astonishment as Doyle took and lit a cigarette from the packet he produced from his shirt pocket.

"No wonder your bloody wind was gone in under a minute! What the fuck are you doing with a cigarette?"

"Smoking it. Look, it's late and I'm tired. Say what you have to and go." 

"What's happened to you?" demanded Bodie, unheeding. "No one in their right mind takes up smoking at our age. What's going on? There's something. People around HQ treat you like a cross between a holy relic and a ghost. Given the way you drift around like the Dying Swan it isn't bloody surprising. You're broke, listless and watching you in the gym earlier was an embarrassment. What's happened to you?"

His expression controlled, Doyle stubbed out his partially smoked cigarette, clamping down against the threatening anger. He couldn't afford the luxury of releasing it; if he allowed the anger in he would have to admit all the other emotions jostling behind it. "If you've finished the lecture you can leave. Now." 

"Or?" Balanced on the balls of his feet, Bodie saw no answering spark in the guarded face opposite his own.

"Nothing." His shrug sending an excruciating shaft of pain down his back, Doyle's breath hissed inwards. "You have your life, I have mine. Go home and leave me to live mine the way I want." Reaching for the prop of another cigarette, the packet was snatched from him and hurled across the room.

"You call this living!" shouted Bodie, refusing to admit how much this untypical calm of Doyle's was scaring him. "The only thing that can be said in your favour is the fact you're still breathing - and that won't last long if you carry on smoking. Christ, have you got a bloody death wish?"

Wide, incurious eyes travelled over him but Doyle made no attempt to reply.

Bodie came close to hitting him. "Did you hear me?"

The pain very bad now, Doyle felt the dampness of sweat at his armpits. "I should think the whole mews heard you. Why did you walk out on me a year ago?" He could think of nothing else to say, recriminations all that seemed to be left to them.

"You sound like an abandoned lover," sneered Bodie, this the last question he had expected.

Doyle's unfocussed gaze slid past him. "Isn't that what I was?" He swallowed hard, the prospect of throwing up at Bodie's feet not one he relished.

"Not as I remember it." 

"Ah. Was that why you left?"

"I left because I'd had enough of you," said Bodie brutally. "That much hasn't changed." 

"Then why are you standing here arguing about it?" asked Doyle tiredly.

Suspecting mockery and hating Doyle for making him want him, Bodie took an unconscious step forward. "You never give up, do you," he grated, aware of his traitorous yearning to surrender while determined to guard himself against further hurt.

Doyle gave an unsteady exhalation. "Oh, yes," he contradicted, wandering from the light into the shadows, "I did that some time ago." 

The soft, unemphatic voice was the final anticlimax, the note of resigned acceptance not what Bodie had hoped for. Watching the graceful hands part in a gesture of emptiness, a spreading ache engulfed him. "You give up easily." 

"So I've been told. I didn't have any choice in the matter, remember - you made all the decisions." 

Grasping Doyle's shoulder, Bodie swung him into what little light was cast by the lamp on the far side of the room. "Poor misunderstood little flower. This is one hell of an act you've developed. Work well, does it? I preferred the old version myself, it had the ring of honesty to it. Or did you lose your balls along with your hair?" Confident now, he was braced for a glorious full-blooded fight, his frustration, fear and anger needing some release while he denied his emotions a more rational outlet.

Emotionally and physically drained, Doyle shook his head, hardly conscious of Bodie's bruising grip for the agony down his spine. "We can't make a go of the job like this. I tried to tell Cowley but he didn't believe me. It doesn't take two of us. You could handle it standing on your head." 

"And Cowley will change his mind and let us make our own arrangements, I suppose? That'll be a first." 

"Why not? Just so long as it gets results. They're all that interest him. I'll see him in the morning. We've said all there is to say." 

"You want to bet on that?" Bodie's grip over sinew and bone tightened until Doyle's face betrayed his discomfort. Bodie did not ease the pressure, blindingly aware he wasn't ready to sunder his life from Doyle's for a second time. Not yet.

"No bets, Bodie. Every time we meet we end up going for the jugular. We can't work like this. Can't go on either - or I can't." Dizzy with pain and the effort it was taking to control his turbulent emotions, Doyle's voice was tight and uneven. Of his own needs he said nothing, no longer certain what they were. He had thought he knew, but then he had thought he knew Bodie.

In the quiet, bare room, too close to Doyle's familiar warmth and scent, Bodie could not reply for a moment, as scalded with lust for this muted figure as he had been for Doyle in his many other moods, refusing to concede it could be anything more.

"I can," he said with unshakeable confidence, believing it.

"Lucky you." Doyle tried and failed to shrug free of the painful grip.

Believing he heard the mocking contempt which had both flayed and infuriated him in the past, Bodie's mouth compressed. "Don't pretty it up. Let's say what we mean. Just because we couldn't live together doesn't mean it all has to stop. I still want to fuck you, I always did. But I never had the chance, did I? What was wrong, didn't I court you right? Or didn't it fit your macho image?"

Doyle gave him a blank stare.

"Come off it, even you can't be this forgetful. Every time I'd reach out for you - every god damn time - what happened? You'd take over, that's what happened. For a while I was besotted enough to think it was because I was irresistible. I learnt better. Well, you guard that pretty arse, mate. Save it for a rainy day, make some other poor sod salivate for it. I hope he'll think it worth your price." 

Punch-drunk with emotional tension, Doyle shook his head, as if trying to clear it. They were too far from the lamp for him to be able to see Bodie's face in any detail but his voice was an eloquent indication of the bitterness festering inside him, proof, had Doyle required any more, that he had failed on every conceivable front.

"You never... I thought - " Doyle's hand traced a vague arc " -I didn't think you wanted that - me. You only suggested it the once and after the way I reacted I didn't like to push the idea." 

Scared I'd lose you, he thought with a corrosive self-mockery.

"You didn't like to push it," echoed Bodie, his voice dangerously soft. Seizing Doyle's hand, he pressed it against his rock hard erection. "I want you all right," he continued, determined to pierce Doyle's deadly calm which made them strangers, resolute that Doyle should be wholly his, if only for fleeting moments. Get into Doyle and Doyle out of his system once and for all. Be fucking easy. His flesh gave an anticipatory twitch. Feeling Doyle's fingers stir before they were still, he fought not to thrust into the motionless palm. Only his grip kept Doyle's hand in place.

"You want to fuck me?" There was an unfamiliar note in Doyle's voice. 

"Very good that, Ray. Very virginal. But aren't you a bit old for this act?" 

"And that's all you want?" The question was barely audible.

Bodie gave a harsh laugh, the sound devoid of humour. "It's all you've got. It's all you've ever had - and you don't even come across, you bloody prick tease. Well, no more. I'm calling your bluff." 

"You can call what you like. I'm not in the mood to play. You can't always have what you want. Stop whining." 

"That's your field of expertise," said Bodie silkily. "Only now you'll have something to moan about. I'm going to have you." There was no melodrama in his voice, only a terrifying certainty.

It sliced through every one of Doyle's controls. "I shouldn't put money on it." 

Bodie gave a slow, confident smile. "I won't need to because you're going to offer it, aren't you? Or shall I fight you for your honour? It's all the same to me. See, your suspicions were correct, us mercenaries are a funny lot." He released his grip on Doyle's hand.

"Change the record. The only person who ever gave a damn about your past was you," retorted Doyle, wondering if he would be sick before or after Bodie left. He gave another determined swallow.

"Your choice, Ray." Victory in his sights, Bodie's eyes were hard and avaricious, those of a miser stumbling upon hidden treasure. "You needn't worry about inessentials. This - " he gave the cheek of Doyle's left buttock a hard squeeze " - is all that interests me. I've served my seven years," he added bitterly.

Aware that Bodie wasn't bluffing, Doyle briefly closed his eyes, knowing he couldn't stop Bodie from making good his threat. His only alternative was to make an open plea. He offered it without hesitation, this not a time for false pride.

"I don't want to be fucked, and especially not like this." He could smell his own sweat, pain and fear locking every muscle.

"Tough. I've stopped worrying about what you want. Tonight it's my turn. Well, which is it to be because easy or not I'm going to have you?"

"It'll be rape if you do," said Doyle quietly, gathering his defences.

"Then let it." 

Staring at Bodie's handsome, unyielding face, defeat bitter on his tongue, Doyle made no attempt to reply. There was nothing left to say. Nothing left at all in fact, Bodie a stranger to him. His gaze flickered around the heavily shadowed room, cataloguing his chances of escape before he abandoned the thought. Just as it was beyond him to fight and win, equally retreat was out. He wouldn't get three feet. There was no point in making things worse than they had to be. He couldn't believe Bodie would...

Unwilling to follow that train of thought through, the actions of the man he faced impossible to predict, Doyle took an unsteady breath, hands moving to the front of his jeans. The rasp of the zip sounded shockingly loud in the silence; the darkness hid the fact his hands were shaking.

Bodie began to strip with an unhurried deliberation. He was still ready before his companion. When he saw Doyle's hands rise to unfasten his shirt, he shook his head. "Don't bother, it's not that end I'm interested in." 

Unaroused and afraid in earnest, Doyle half-turned, hardly knowing what he was doing, the pain in his back making coherent thought difficult.

"Where d'you think you're going?" demanded Bodie, stepping in front of him.

"The bedroom's down the hall." 

"Got a bit nice in your ideas, haven't you. There's nothing wrong with the carpet." Bodie tumbled him down without further ado. Braced for a full-scale fight, he was mildly disappointed when none was forthcoming.

Having lost his balance when he tripped on one of Bodie's discarded shoes, Doyle tried to orientate himself in an effort to ease the spearing agony in his back.

"Oh, no you don't!" Bodie gasped, wrenching Doyle's outflung arm up into his shoulder blade - the standard hold for subduing a would-be assailant.

The pain was instant and excruciating, depriving Doyle of the breath for more than a choked cry. His face scraping the Draylon pile of the carpet, he could barely breathe, unable to resist as he was manipulated up onto his knees. He flinched when ungentle fingers probed the entrance to his body. Too knowledgeable not to be aware of the risk to them both if Bodie took him by force, Doyle tried to relax his locked muscles. Bodie in his right mind held rapists in revulsion, Bodie blind with fury and lust was capable of any violence.

It took Doyle two attempts before he could speak. "Bodie, be - "

" - gentle?" mocked a breathless voice in his ear. "Ah, you should've said if you wanted hearts and flowers. This one's for me. It won't take long," Bodie promised with manic good humour. Excitement leaked from the tip of his penis over the clenched muscle it was brushing.

Releasing his grasp of Doyle's arm the better to position himself, Bodie didn't hear the sound Doyle made as he slumped. His fingers tightening their grip, Bodie's breath sucked in as he prepared to sheathe himself in one long thrust.

Meeting the resistance of tight-locked dry muscle, unconsidered pain made Bodie withdraw after his initial penetration with a hiss of discomfort. Spitting vigorously, he lubricated his cock with saliva before grasping Doyle's flanks, his thumbs pulling Doyle's buttocks wider apart. But the delay and pain had cleared his lust-hazed senses, preventing him from ignoring the message every point of contact was sending him. Doyle was vibrating like a highly strung cable in the wind, his skin clammy to the touch.

If I take him it will be rape. Then let it, he thought savagely. Let it.

Doyle's tremors seemed to increase, every muscle tensed against him in this silent battle of wills, although he had made no attempt to escape or defend himself. He seemed a very long way away. Defeated, Bodie's hands eased their punishing grip.

"You bastard," he whispered with disbelief. "Damn you. Damn you!"

Rage-induced moisture blurring his vision, his balls in knots, Bodie grabbed Doyle again and, his face twisting with grief, rage and need, he thrust desperately between Doyle's just-parted thighs, seeking any channel which could offer friction and release from the agony in his groin. His breathing ragged, his body slapped sweatily against Doyle's, driving them both along the carpet as he fought to bring himself off against unresponsive flesh. When it finally came, his climax was painfully fast and unsatisfactory.

For a few moments there was silence, save for the sound of harsh breathing.

"You're a real joy, you are," said Bodie finally, his voice unsteady with rage and humiliation. "Still, at least I can say I've tried necrophilia." 

Hauling himself to his feet, Bodie dragged on recalcitrant cords and refastened his crumpled shirt, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Bending to retrieve his shoes, he had to tug at one which was trapped by Doyle's weight. Ignoring Doyle's grunt of discomfort, Bodie forced his bare feet into his shoes before staring at the man splayed on the carpet. 

"You can unlock the treasure chest now. I know when I'm beaten." Turning, Bodie left at some speed.

Shaking beyond hope of concealment, Doyle labouriously righted himself, his arm cradled to his chest in a vain attempt to minimise the cost of movement. Outside, an engine kicked into life, followed by the angry screech of tyres as the car took off at speed. Trying not to breath too often or deeply because it hurt so much, he listened as the sound faded, isolating him in silence.

 

The pain having reached the point where it made him physically sick, Doyle had been forced to move. Spent and shaking, he remained slumped on the floor beside the toilet bowl long after the spasms had stopped, his clammy forehead propped against the cool porcelain.

Christ, but he hurt, the pain a gnawing thing deep in his body, impossible to ignore or isolate. He had stopped trying to take only shallow breaths or to cradle his arm because neither action made any difference, the left side of his body feeling as if it was caught in a vice from the top of his scalp to his waist.

After some time he became aware of how quiet it was, the only sounds coming from the water in the pipes behind him as the cistern filled and the crack of plastic guttering outside as it cooled after the heat of the day. He had never felt this alone or helpless before, terrified by his body's betrayal and with no one he could call on for help. He could die and no one would know. His legs beginning to cramp as he grew cold, Doyle moved with caution, his face twisting.

Heart attack? he wondered with an adrenalin rush of panic which made the blood pound in his ears, sweat springing cold on his skin. Not daring to move, he stayed where he was, trying to calm his breathing. Hyperventilating wouldn't help anyone. In time the agony eased to a bearable level, the relief so intense that moisture prickled his eyes. Uncurling with caution, he sat back against the support of the wall, calm enough now to realise that the source of his discomfort was centred in his back.

Can hardly have a heart attack there, he reminded himself, a wry twist to his mouth. Some hero you are. Wonder what the hell it is.

It required more effort than he was capable of making to go to the Casualty Department of the nearest hospital, particularly as he didn't know where that might be. Having isolated the source of the pain, Doyle convinced himself that it must be a muscle spasm or a trapped nerve. It was certainly easier to accept now he knew he wasn't dying.

But after hauling himself to his feet, he wasn't so sure, having to wait some time before he dared move again.

Finally flat on his back, the spearing hurt eased to a degree which permitted thought, events of the evening tumbling back in all their raw ugliness to whirl in his exhausted brain.

 

Bodie found himself sitting in the car outside his flat with no clear memory of driving there. Unclenching his fingers from the steering wheel, he became aware of his discomfort within his cords - and the reason for it.

His face tight with anger, humiliation swept over him as he went into the flat, grateful Inger was gone. He wasn't in the mood for civilised behaviour. His shower found various sore spots. Friction burns, he recognised, knowing how close he had come to rape tonight.

First time for everything.

But the sour taste remained, despite the time he spent under the cleansing water.

Rape. Not that Doyle tried to stop me. He didn't do any fucking thing. Bastard. Maybe he gets off on pain these days.

A vicious twist to his mouth, Bodie went to bed, burying his heated face in the pillows, but sleep was slow to come.


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT

 

Listening to Henderson's self-satisfied explanation whilst peering at the incomprehensible X-ray he was being shown, Doyle's expression relaxed. A small bleed in the pleural cavity didn't mean much to him but it couldn't be anything serious. Henderson was looking far too grim. The time to worry was when he smiled.

"So that's all it is," he said, sitting back with caution.

"Don't worry, it will feel like more for a couple of weeks or so. There's nothing much I can do for you either. Nature has to take her course in an injury of this kind. It will clear up in its own good time. I can give you something for the pain but the less you do, the faster you'll heal. Don't look so glum, man, we'll soon be feeling better."

"You might," said Doyle sourly.

Busy writing out a prescription, Henderson spared him a glance which betrayed his lack of comprehension. "There we are. Don't drink while you're taking these. And try not to catch a cold, sneezing will give you hell. It's fortunate I'm familiar with this type of injury," he added complacently. "I haven't had one of these for six months and it's damn difficult to pick up on an X-ray unless you know what you're looking for."

Doyle resisted with ease the temptation to congratulate him.

"Your training schedule will have to be abandoned for a while, of course."

"Brian will be pleased," sighed Doyle, although he had expected little else.

"He wasn't when he spoke to me earlier. He should have brought you to me immediately," Henderson added severely. "I shall - "

"It wasn't this bad yesterday afternoon," interrupted Doyle with haste, knowing who would suffer the fall-out if Macklin had to listen to a lecture from Henderson. The two men had never seen eye to eye, possibly because Henderson never used one word when ten would do while Macklin seemed to prefer to rely on grunts and body language to communicate.

"Really? Then no doubt you'll explain to Macklin how you came to overtax yourself despite Fields's advice to the contrary."

"What I don't understand is why it should be my back that hurts when it's my lung that's injured," said Doyle with even more haste, yet to think of an explanation for his injury which would satisfy Macklin.

"Referred pain. What have you been doing to yourself since I saw you last? You're obviously not sleeping and you've lost weight." Henderson made a point of noting something in Doyle's file.

"It's the humid weather," Doyle dismissed, remembering too late not to shrug.

"And I thought we were having our coolest summer for years," returned Henderson, eyeing him unsympathetically.

Doyle abandoned the unequal contest. "Can I go now?"

"Whenever you like. Have this prescription made up, take a couple of tablets and get some sleep. I hope you're not a restless sleeper, you'll find yourself waking up in a hurry if you are."

"I discovered that much for myself. Thanks." Hesitating in the doorway, Doyle finally voiced the doubt which had been plaguing him. "This haema-whatever it is. Will it happen again? That is, will it make any difference to what I can do?"

"There's no reason why it should if you take a reasonable amount of care. But Brian and Jack will have to be fully briefed. You can't afford to overstrain yourself for a while - unless you want a recurrence. Of course the healed tissue will be more vulnerable because of this injury, in the same way that a torn ligament leaves a weakness. No worse, no better than that. But don't forget, you didn't do that shoulder of yours much good - if you'd told someone the moment it started to give you problems ultra-sound might have helped. As it is..." Henderson shrugged, "you'll have to be patient." 

"Then I'll still be able to workout in the gym, play squash?" Henderson nodded. "Well, that's all right then."

While Henderson wouldn't have expressed it like that, he had been working amongst field agents for long enough to understand their priorities. Doyle's change of status had yet to alter his attitude to injury. "Come and see me next Friday at nine-thirty and we'll see how you're doing."

Prescription tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, Doyle escaped before Henderson could change his mind.

 

Somehow Bodie got through the day, although none of his activities could be said to have been very productive, his manner to everyone he met one of icy antagonism. Entering the gym late that afternoon, he found Doyle conspicuous by his absence. Having made it his business to check Doyle's timetable, Bodie knew he had been due here fifteen minutes ago. Abandoning his pretence at working, he left the Nautilus he had been using to take up the matter of Doyle's absence with Ken, the physiotherapist.

"Doyle? Oh, the shoulder. Stupid prat, I don't know what he's playing at wasting our time like this."

"In what way?" asked Bodie, his voice calm despite his inner turmoil. 

"He got into a full scale workout when he was already in trouble. After the hours we've spent getting him fit. Brian's not best pleased. I'd give him a wide berth until he's had a chance to calm down." 

"So Doyle's not here?"

"Does it look like it? He'll get the rough edge of my tongue when he does turn up, I can tell you. Christ, is that the time? I've got an elbow waiting for some ultra-sound."

Watching the older man hurry away Bodie's expression gave no indication of his apprehension. Ken's only interest in people was in getting them fit. He identified injuries, not individuals. Doyle was 'the shoulder'. Remembering the workout with Doyle and its aftermath, Doyle's passivity made more sense and Bodie's stomach gave an uneasy lurch. Typical bloody Doyle to play the martyr, he thought, but it did nothing to reduce his sense of guilt.

Showered and changed, he stalked out into the car park, at odds with the world and himself, only to find Macklin in his path. "Yes?"

"I want a word with you."

"What about this time?" demanded Bodie, his mood far from co-operative.

"You can't imagine?" There was open disapproval on Macklin's face.

Releasing his holdall, Bodie folded his arms over his chest. "Is Doyle going to press charges?" He heard the question with a sense of astonishment.

Macklin's expression did not alter. "Does he have cause to?"

"Who knows?" shrugged Bodie, uneasy with the ugliness of his thoughts. Irrationally he blamed Doyle for those along with everything else.

Macklin studied him with obvious dislike. "Time was," he said finally, "when I would have said the pair of you were Cowley's top team. When I heard you were re-uniting I thought it could be one of the best things to happen to CI5 for quite some time. Cowley's asked for my recommendation regarding your fitness."

Bodie ignored the invitation, his expression stony.

"Physically you're A1," continued Macklin in the same uncompromising tone. "Mentally, if it was up to me, you'd be out. You're an accident looking for a victim. You've mutated into something ugly, Bodie. Make sure that load of resentment you're carrying around doesn't destroy you."

Bodie picked up his holdall. "You can't expect all of us to go your route. Nerves still playing you up, are they?"

Having seen and heard too much recently to be surprised by Bodie's taunt, Macklin let it pass but while he smiled, the expression in his eyes was arctic. "There are times when it seems preferable to the alternative. Think about it, Bodie. While you still have a choice."

 

Less than enthusiastic when he heard Cowley's voice over the intercom, Doyle released the security lock and waited for the older man to climb the stairs.

"You damn fool," snapped Cowley by way of a greeting, his manner not that usually associated with offering succour and support to the sick.

Appreciating as much, Doyle gave a wry grin. "I'm fine, sir, but thanks for asking."

"I can see nothing remotely funny about this. How long is this injury going to keep you off work?"

"I'll be out of the gym for a couple of weeks, that's all. I've been listening to some of the telephone tapes this afternoon. If I don't do anything too energetic I'm fine."

Partially mollified, Cowley gave the bottle of Glenfiddich he could see a pained look, studying the younger man shrewdly thereafter. Familiar enough with all the signs, it was obvious Doyle was in some discomfort. Nodding as he took the generously filled tumbler, his expression lost some of its severity. "How's the investigation going?"

Doyle pulled a face. "It isn't."

Their discussion on the progress made saw Cowley through another large malt. "I understand you and Bodie had a workout yesterday," he remarked, changing the subject without warning.

"That's right," Doyle confirmed, his guard snapping up.

"And that it got out of hand."

"It's easily done," Doyle dismissed, automatically falling into the habit of covering for his partner, as Bodie had always done for him. "It's a thin line between a decent workout and the real thing. We're a bit rusty."

"You need hardly remind me of that," snorted Cowley, having been briefed by Macklin on the little he had witnessed. Having seen Bodie around headquarters today, and with his own suspicions about what lay behind the incident, Cowley had chosen not to tax Bodie on the subject. In Bodie's present mood there was a danger he would simply walk out and Cowley knew that his relationship with the younger man was so strained that his intervention could only exacerbate matters. Instead, he amended his plans for both men to give them the cooling-off period they so obviously needed. "How bad is it?" he asked abruptly, gesturing to Doyle's torso.

"As you see," shrugged Doyle. That was a mistake, his mouth twisting, sweat springing up on his skin.

"I understood that Henderson left you with some painkillers. Why aren't you taking them?"

Propped against the wall, Doyle didn't waste his breath lying. "Can't drink. Besides, they make me sleepy."

The glass of scotch was twitched out of his hand. "How much of this have you had?"

"It's my first." Doyle's glare would have incinerated a lesser man.

"Save your energy," Cowley advised him. "Are these the tablets? Then take two and get some rest. You're no good to me like this and I've got better things to do than act as your nursemaid. Do you have a current passport?"

"Yes, but - "

"Good. Someone has to represent CI5 at a four-day anti-terrorist conference in Helsinki on Monday. You've been nominated."

"By whom?" demanded Doyle, singularly underwhelmed by the honour.

"Me. You can take it easy over the weekend familiarising yourself with all the changes in approach since you were on the Squad. I'll have the papers sent round to you. Betty will give you the itinerary and plane tickets. No jeans for this one," Cowley added, aware of the stir Doyle had caused around Whitehall in his 501s and trainers.

"What I wear won't change what I have to say."

"If only everyone shared your simplistic views. Suit and tie," ordered Cowley, comfortably aware that Doyle had made his sartorial point only where it would not unduly embarrass CI5. "The conference will provide you with an opportunity to renew your acquaintance with Willis and Hunter who will be amongst the other speakers. It's time you met up with some of your European counterparts, too."

"Other speakers? You mean I've got to talk?"

"The usual problem is to stop you. You'll find my speech amongst the papers Betty will provide. No doubt you'll want to amend it to suit your style of delivery."

"You're giving me a carte blanche?" Doyle absently swallowed the two tablets he had been holding and gave the Scot a sour glance as Cowley drained what had been his drink.

"If I had any doubts about your abilities you wouldn't be going," said Cowley urbanely, avoiding a direct answer to Doyle's question.  
"Should I be flattered? It sounds a high profile affair. Why aren't you going?"

"Because I have more important matters to concern myself with." Anticipating Doyle's next question, which was one he had given Doyle the right to ask over the last few weeks, Cowley added: "While attention is focussed on Helsinki, another meeting will be taking place in Berkshire."

"Ah," said Doyle, understanding perfectly. "Behind Willis's back, eh? You devious old bugger. But why send me? Anti-terrorism was always Bodie's speciality, not mine."

"Firstly, because I say so. Secondly, because Bodie's a damn sight more mobile than you at the moment. Thirdly, because in his present frame of mind his diplomatic skills leave much to be desired. You're my only other option."

"Thanks."

Cowley gave the younger man a sardonic glance. "You're welcome. It isn't necessary to stand in my presence."

"You must be suffering from delusions of grandeur," remarked Doyle with a faint grin. "It's more comfortable to stand than sit at the moment, that's all. Took me fifteen minutes to get off the sofa this afternoon."

"Get off to bed," commanded Cowley gruffly. "You've got two days to rest, make good use of them. Cheer up, man, the conference won't be that bad. You always used to complain that you never got any all-expenses-paid trips abroad."

Doyle gave him a disillusioned look. "Airport to hotel to conference centre and back. There'll be after dinner speeches and press conferences, too."

"The break will do you good." Cowley rose to his feet.

"Break from what?" enquired Doyle, his expression hardening as he opened the front door.

"You would know that better than me. I'll see you first thing Friday morning," added Cowley, closing the front door behind him before Doyle could offer any of the comments hovering on the tip of his tongue.

 

That evening Bodie bought the cheapest bottle of whisky he could find. Returning with it to his empty flat, he deliberately set out to get drunk. While he achieved his objective, it did nothing but give him an appalling hangover.

oOo

 

Physical discomfort preoccupied Doyle for the first thirty-six hours. However, having been assured of the temporary nature of his injury, silent suffering changed to irritability, Doyle never having found that pain did much for the nobility of his nature. With nothing but research for the forthcoming conference to hold his attention and painkillers to dull his senses, inevitably he thought about the course his reunion with Bodie had taken. The more he thought about it, the more difficult he found it to remain in the emotionless vacuum he had tried to create for himself, his anger building in small, barely perceptible stages.

oOo

 

Cowley emerged from his office Sunday afternoon to find Doyle in conversation with Betty. Recognising the angry glitter in the younger man's eyes, Cowley was grateful that Doyle would be out of the country for a few days and congratulated himself on the fact that Bodie was safely out of the way running the annual security check at Aldermaston.

"Did you want me?" he demanded, his manner making it clear he had little time to spare as he ushered Doyle into the corridor.

"No, sir. I've just collected my tickets. I've been looking for Bodie."

Aware of the anger betrayed by every line of Doyle's body, Cowley experienced the fleeting wish that Dr Ross could see Doyle now. It might reassure her. Diverting Doyle's anger into the proper channels had always been a task and a half. "Bodie is otherwise engaged. Can I give him a message?" He was less than surprised when Doyle declined his offer. "Have a good trip - and try not to jeopardise our working relationship with the French too much," he added, sliding into the Rover waiting for him in the car park.

Retaining his hold on the door, Doyle asked, "What's Bodie engaged on?"

His patience expended, Cowley's mouth thinned. "Working for me - as you are supposed to be. Save the drama for your personal time, not mine, clear? You may shut the door now."

It slammed with some force.

Cowley's only consolation came from the knowledge that the gesture had undoubtedly hurt Doyle more than his car.

oOo

 

It was Tuesday morning before Bodie, who had been unobtrusively trying to discover Doyle's whereabouts, learnt that he was in Helsinki. As the information came from Cowley, whose bland tone took it for granted that he knew, Bodie swallowed his questions and tried to look knowledgeable.

"I'm hoping for a stick of rock," he lied glibly.

"Are you indeed? I'm disappointed in you, Bodie."

The tone precluded any possible flippancy. Bodie stiffened but made no attempt to reply.

"You're well aware of the gravity of the investigation you're supposed to be conducting. I expect personal considerations to be left outside work hours. If you're experiencing difficulties in adjusting to any facet of your regraded status adjust to them in your time, not mine. Do you realise your little fracas with Doyle has cost him at least a fortnight out of his retraining?" 

The question clearly rhetorical, Bodie nodded, wondering exactly how badly Doyle was hurt - and how his shoulder had been injured in the first place.

"Don't let it happen again. If you're so out of touch that you can't differentiate between a workout and a full-scale attack I trust you'll find time for a refresher course with Brian."

"Yessir." Dismissed with a nod, Bodie did not resent the lecture because he knew it had been earned. If he had spent as much time on the investigation as he had brooding about Doyle they might have found the mole by now. 

That knowledge notwithstanding, it was Doyle who continued to occupy a large portion of Bodie's attention, guilt eating away at the righteous anger he had been trying to sustain. But he bought no more whisky, cheap or otherwise, aware that it wouldn't provide an answer to his problem and afraid of what he might do when drunk if he could try to rape Doyle when sober.

No longer so selective in his memories, his actions had shocked Bodie into some self-appraisal. A year ago he had walked out on everything he wanted most because he had been terrified by the realisation of how much it meant to him. Becoming more certain each day of what he wanted, what he had always needed if only his pride hadn't denied it, he knew his behaviour since being reunited with Doyle could have lost him any chance he might have had of effecting a reconciliation.

oOo

 

Doyle returned from foreign parts in much the same mood as he had left them, a diamond bright glitter of anger lurking behind his smile, awaiting only the right target. He had not enjoyed the conference. His return flight delayed by the air traffic controllers' dispute which always enlivened the summer months, it was almost midnight when he arrived home. Discarding his suit with relief, associating the wearing of one with trials, inquiries or funerals, he snatched a few hours' sleep before leaving for CI5 at an early hour.

Quite apart from his debriefing with Cowley, Doyle was determined to see Bodie and make a few things plain to him. He was no man's doormat. If Bodie didn't like the fact they had to work together, Bodie could stuff it. He'd taken all he was prepared to - more, in fact.

But beneath Doyle's anger was bewilderment. He didn't know what Bodie was playing at, the very sight of him seeming like a red flag to Bodie's bull. So why does he keep searching me out when there's no need - never mind coming that close to screwing me through the carpet? It's time to find out just what he does want. Which isn't to say he'll get it. He's made his bed, he can damn well lie on it. If Inger isn't enough for him... As always, the thought of Inger and Bodie's son stopped Doyle short.

Having listened to Doyle's concise, unenthusiastic report, Cowley gave a nod of approval. "You did well enough in the circumstances. CI5 isn't about to share its hard-won expertise without a little reciprocity. How is Willis?"

"Very affable."

"He tried to poach your services, then."

"Not just mine. He seems to have forgiven Bodie his past transgressions too. You expected him to put in a bid?"

"I would have done in his place. Experienced men of your calibre are worth their weight in - "

" - paper," completed Doyle sourly, although the unsolicited compliment had taken him aback. Wary, he waited for the sting in the tail.

"How did Willis take rejection?" asked Cowley, not troubling to hide his amusement at Doyle's reaction.

"What rejection?" asked Doyle, exacting his revenge. "I'm still considering the deal. He offered excellent terms. Excuse me, I'm due to see Henderson in five minutes." He left before Cowley had gathered the breath to express his feelings.

 

Visiting first Henderson, then Macklin, both of whom indicated cautious approval with the rate of his recovery, Doyle decided he had earned a cup of coffee. Glad the squad room was deserted, he propped himself against the wall, his gaze on the pavement far below as he waited for the kettle to boil. The delayed flight into Heathrow had given him some time to think - just as well because he had a lot to sort out. It had taken him quite a while to acknowledge that behind his fury with Bodie was a large dose of self-disgust and rage with himself for his wimpish retreat into self-pity. Christ, if that's the best I can offer I'd do better to crawl into the box and pull down the lid now, he thought with renewed anger, splashing himself with boiling water as he made his coffee.

About time I stopped reacting and started concentrating. It's no wonder people keep asking me if I'm OK. What the hell am I playing at? Silent suffering's never been my scene and I'm no man's pet dog. There again, if I go round wearing a sign saying "Kick me" I can hardly complain if someone obliges. 

Maybe I wouldn't if that someone hadn't been Bodie. Absently stirring the contents of his mug long after the need to do so had passed, Doyle licked thoughtfully at the spoon. It had been easy to blame his disintegration on Bodie. Too easy. About time I picked up my own load instead of expecting other people to carry it for me. Take responsibility for my own life and mistakes.

Not that that excuses Bodie, Doyle reminded himself, an unforgiving light in his eye. He's been on the prod ever since I appeared on his doorstep. Well, bad luck, mate. You wanted a reaction, you'll get one. I've had you up to here. Whatever happens next will be on my terms, not yours. 

He set down his mug, the contents untouched. Fighting talk, wonder if I'll be able to live up to it? Be easier if I could accept that I can't always have what I want - or stop wanting what I can't have. Maybe it's just a habit I've fallen into - like breathing.

Heading for the computer room, resigned to the necessity of doing some work before confronting Bodie, Doyle turned the corner at speed and cannoned into the subject of his thoughts.

Finding himself nose to nose with the man he had been looking for, Bodie stepped back a pace. "I've been trying to find you," he said awkwardly, unconscious of his devouring stare.

"And now you've succeeded. It must be your lucky day." Taking it for granted that Bodie would follow him, Doyle abandoned his plans for work and headed down the corridor, absently returning the greetings of those he passed.

"I was surprised to hear Cowley sent you to Helsinki - I thought you might be on sick-leave. Shouldn't you be wearing a sling or something?" asked Bodie, wondering guiltily what injuries might be concealed beneath the white sweatshirt Doyle was wearing.

"Where would you suggest?" Leaving the Administrative Section, Doyle nodded to Sam on the security desk as they passed into the restricted area.

For someone supposedly living it up on expenses Doyle was looking underfed and underslept, if disconcertingly lively, noted Bodie, an expert in Doyle-watching. He forbore to comment, able to think only of the last time he had seen the other man, Doyle sprawled at his feet, shivering with pain. Frowning against the beginnings of a thumping headache, Bodie reached out to bring Doyle to a halt, allowing his hand to fall at the last moment.

"We need to talk," he said quietly.

"Why, did you uncover the body while I've been away?" asked Doyle, flattening himself against the wall to allow a trolley bearing a TV and video recorder to go by.

"Not about the job. We need to talk," Bodie repeated doggedly.

Very controlled, Doyle turned. "I don't. Or did you think of something else you wanted to get off your chest? No other little repressions you think I should know about?"

"Ray, I - " Bodie ground to a halt, only to find himself being accosted by a harassed-looking Betty.

"There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you two. Mr Cowley wants to see you urgently. As of ten minutes ago," she added pointedly when neither man leapt into action.

"What about?" asked Bodie, although his attention remained on the narrow-hipped man at his side.

"There's a diplomatic flap on. He wants you two to run the London end in his absence."

"Wonderful," sighed Doyle. "OK, love, we'll be there. Two minutes, I promise."

Sagging back against the wall, Bodie's gaze remained on his ex-partner as he finally admitted that his return to CI5 had nothing to do with national security and only a little with Cowley. Wonderful timing, he thought tiredly.

"Have you taken root? Cowley's waiting," Doyle reminded him.

"Since when have you worried about being late for Cowley?" returned Bodie, responding instinctively to the sharp tone.

"Not now. It isn't the time or place."

Blinking, it took Bodie a moment to realise what Doyle had assumed. "I wasn't... I didn't mean to snap," he amended lamely, knowing Doyle had no reason to believe him.

Propped against the opposite wall Doyle studied Bodie's subdued figure for several seconds before his expression eased. "OK. We'll talk - when Cowley gives us time."

oOo

 

With Cowley in Hertfordshire overseeing those of his agents who were guarding some politically-sensitive Middle Eastern delegates, Bodie and Doyle controlled the day-to-day running of CI5. The Squad had already been at full stretch before this new crisis. Dividing up their responsibilities without difficulty, they fell back into old and trusted work patterns, each knowing the other's capabilities as well as his own. Forced to spend a lot of time together, there was none to waste on personal considerations, no time for anything but the job in hand and the needs of the agents in their charge. Their conversations unguarded and wholly businesslike, their minds meshed with the same old ease, making often difficult decisions a little easier.

Bodie returned from his overnight visit to Birmingham cautiously satisfied by the conclusion of the operation which had taken him there. He made his way to the small dormitory within CI5, intending to snatch two or three hours' sleep before he tackled the paperwork ensuing from the capture of the vast arms cache and three IRA small fry. The room lit only by light spilling in from the corridor, it was a moment before he realised that one of the cots was occupied. Doyle lay sprawled on top of the covers of the bed nearest to the door, a faint gleam betraying the fact his eyes were open.

"Sorry if I woke you. I didn't expect to find anyone here tonight." Bodie slumped heavily onto the edge of the cot opposite that which Doyle occupied, wondering if he had the energy to take his boots off.

"I wasn't asleep. Decided to hang on here and try to get ahead of the game for tomorrow. Stayed so long there didn't seem any point in going home," offered Doyle on a yawn. "That info. Anson dredged up was good. They've caught Hector."

"Never! Alive?"

"Yeah." Doyle's tone conceded Bodie's right to sound surprised. "I'm not sure how, mind. Anson was too cock-a-hoop to be very coherent. Cowley's leaving Murphy to hold the Foreign Secretary's hand while he takes Hector down to Rapton for a little chat."

"Which means Cowley won't be back for at least a week," recognised Bodie with gloom. 

"You guessed it. He said, I quote, that he has every confidence in us maintaining the smooth running of operations." Bodie swore with feeling. "That's more or less what I said - when he'd rung off. He also congratulated you on breaking the cell and finding that cache."

"Didn't get O'Malley though, did we," returned Bodie sourly, tossing his second boot in the general direction of the first.

"There's time yet. Anyway, Father's pleased."

"Thank god for small mercies. What's the status quo this end? Any problems?"

"Couple of new items, no results. We're keeping our heads above water. No disasters at any rate," added Doyle pensively, his unblinking gaze on the ceiling.

"Time you had a well-deserved kip, then," remarked Bodie, beginning to unwind.

"Nice thought, but I've lost the knack of being able to switch the job off," Doyle admitted.

"You'll need to get it back if this goes on for much longer."

"So what are you doing awake?" returned Doyle mildly.

Bodie stuck his tongue out at him and resisted the urge to visit the Operations Room.

Recognising the same bone-deep fatigue in Bodie that he felt, Doyle sat up to prop his elbows on his upraised knees, his body giving only a faint twinge of protest. "Things can't carry on at this pace."   
"Can I have that in writing?"

"I'll write it in sand if you like. But they can't."

"I hope not. But hoping won't do much good."

The depressed note in Bodie's voice was totally out of character and Doyle knew he couldn't leave it there. "Job getting to you as well, is it?"

"What do you think? I keep breaking out in a cold sweat in case I've overlooked something. I don't want to lose anyone, least of all because of any cock-up of mine. If the Minister wasn't such a gutless shit we could have wrapped up the op. last night."

"He's a politician, mate. He has voters to think of. How could he know what it's like on the streets?"

"From the chat we had he obviously thinks he knows it all. Next time I flip the coin," Bodie added, having lost the toss for who had the unenviable task of keeping the Minister briefed on developments.

"Fair enough," said Doyle equably. When Bodie said nothing else, he flicked on his own light. "What's really bothering you?"

"Nothing. Why should - ?" Bodie took an unsteady breath and said in a rush, "I can't hack the responsibility of looking after our own." It was an admission he would have made to no one else. "It wouldn't be so bad if we were out on the streets with them. It's the waiting that kills me."

"You hide it well," Doyle offered matter-of-factly.

"Then how come you noticed?"

"I don't count."

"Don't sell yourself short."

"I won't. But if you can't tell your partner, who can you tell?"

Relaxing a little, Bodie gave a faint smile. "You could have a point there. I dunno how Cowley does the job. Well, I do but I can't live like that, giving it all to CI5."

"Not many people can. We're out of our depth, mate. This job needs a single-minded ruthlessness, a deviousness and a level of diplomacy we're never going to acquire. And I can't see either of us mastering his famous triple think either. D'you miss the streets much?" Doyle had wondered how Bodie was coping with their change in status even as he battled with his own unaccustomed sense of inadequacy. Now seemed an appropriate moment to ask. While this wasn't the first time they'd let their barriers down with each other, this wasn't a conversation they could have had a year ago. Finding Bodie staring at him, he wondered if it was one they could have now.

"Yes. No. I dunno. It's easier to obey orders than to give them," Bodie admitted almost inaudibly.

"I know." 

"You feel the same way?"

Doyle didn't even hesitate. "Of course."

"Knew we'd feel the same way," mumbled Bodie with satisfaction before he fell silent, his eyes closing as if the lids were weighted.

His heart giving an odd little lurch, Doyle checked his impulse to go to him. Somehow during the last week his anger and resentment had drained away. There were more important things.

Christ, I miss you, he thought helplessly, scrunching his eyes against a longing he could almost taste, his defences non-existent at this time of the morning. I've never heard you this vulnerable before - or so open. Not your style, is it, mate. I was the talker, you'd listen. Or maybe I just never gave you the chance... Was that why you left, because you were tired of always being the giver?

His eyes never leaving the sleeping man, Doyle thought about it, able to be a little more dispassionate now. No, you gave, but only what you wanted to; it was always a conscious decision. Someone hurt you long before I came along. Is that why you wouldn't let me close? I don't think it was because you didn't trust me, we sorted that out in our first year. So why did you keep it all locked away, making people believe nothing ever gets to you. There are still those who think you and Tommy should've been brothers. Not that they count for a spit in the wind... I'm not making much sense, he realised wryly, knowing his twenty-hour stretches of duty were catching up on him. Maybe I'm not, but I think you still want me. And god knows I want you. Is that enough? Let it go. Let it all go...

But because it was too painful to be this close to Bodie and because he was afraid he might betray his longing in his sleep, Doyle quietly left the cot. He stood watching the other man for almost five minutes before going to make himself some coffee. If he was going to have a sleepless night he might as well do something useful in it; there was a six-inch stack of paper awaiting his attention and Julia and Jax would be in at seven for their briefing.

oOo

 

Stretching the cramped muscles of his back Bodie gave the VDU screen a look of dislike. "If this sodding thing tells me to 'Have a nice day' one more time I'll feed it Space Invaders."

"You do that," said Doyle, his attention obviously elsewhere. After speaking quietly into the microphone for a couple of minutes, he cut communication and sat back, his gaze never leaving the enlarged map on the lighted board in front of him.

"That's better," he remarked to no one in particular. "Thought we were going to lose the car for a while. What was that you were saying?" 

"Never mind, sunshine. Everything going OK?"

"Touch wood we still have eight tails on eight mules... We're stretched so thin on the ground that we'll be sending Betty out if another emergency comes in."

"There's always us."

Doyle slowly swivelled his chair round. "You maybe - if we have to. But I don't want you to go intimidating the children. Oh, Murph called in while you were taking a leak. He and the rest of the team are on their way back - should arrive in an hour or so ready to do some real work." 

"He never said that. I'd give a lot for a scenic drive in the sunshine. I've forgotten what fresh air's like." 

"Better than in here, that's for sure. It's bloody stifling. Who pinched the fan?"

"Couldn't say, could you, Johnson?" said Bodie, removing the fan from where it sat on the cabinet behind the duty officer's neck and giving Johnson a benign smile. Flicking the switch he watched Doyle unfasten his shirt, allowing the fan-assisted air to play over his chest.

"Magic," breathed Doyle, his slitted eyes never leaving the lighted board, the microphone poised as he took the reports of the various agents.

"Magic," agreed Bodie, standing behind him and absently massaging Doyle's shoulders, aware of his body's traitorous stir as he watched the soft body hair on Doyle's chest ruffled by the fan, the small brown nipples peaking. Trying not to be too obvious about it Bodie stepped back from temptation. "Think I'll grab a shower while it's quietish."

Doyle superstitiously tapped his forehead in lieu of wood. "Ssh, someone up there might hear you."

"Nah, it'll be OK. Have you got any clean socks I could borrow?"

"Optimist. I raided Jax's locker for these. But I've got some drying in the locker room. They should be ready by now," offered Doyle without breaking his concentration as he coordinated eight pick-ups.

"I'll take 'em," said Bodie when there was a break in the proceedings. "Right, I'm off. I'll make you a cuppa when I get back."

"Thanks, mate. Alpha to 7.7, take him."

Realising he would only be a distraction, Bodie slid away, returning in time to see Doyle give a lengthy stretch, his look of weary satisfaction speaking volumes.

"We got 'em?"

"We did," confirmed Doyle. "Nice piece of work all round. Julia's improved out of all recognition. I reckon Cowley held her back for too long."

"That's blasphemy, that is."

"Maybe it is, but I still think I'm right. He's never been one for throwing the girls in at the deep end. Look at the records. Maybe we should have a word with him about it."

Bodie gave him a look of disbelief. "Have you lost your mind? And why we? You're the one with the bright ideas."

"Because you're my back-up," replied Doyle promptly, his hands curling round the mug despite the heat of the china.

"I suppose that's as good a reason as any. Can't say I'd want a woman for a partner though."

"If she had any sense she wouldn't want you. You ex-army types are all the same, chauvinists to the core."

"Oh, so it wasn't you I've heard in the past telling Sal, Ruth, Debbie and Julia all to take care."

Doyle gave a tired grin. "Fair comment. Don't gloat. Stupid, innit? It was the same in the field. While I never admitted it, put a bird in my sights and I'd lose a good half a second."

"Dumb sod," said Bodie affectionately.

"Yeah?"

Under that steady gaze Bodie began to fidget before he finally conceded defeat. "Guilty as charged," he sighed, adding in a surprised tone, "we could've got ourselves killed."

"Right. I reckon it explains why Lisa and a couple of the new intake are getting such good results in the field - even in some of the simulations. And Jack and Brian don't seem to have picked up it. That's something else to remember when we start working on their training."

"It's not the only thing," said Bodie grimly. "Can you believe this, the day before yesterday I had to take Burrows to one side and waste five minutes spelling out the facts of life in CI5."

"Then he'll remember them from now on."

Bodie rubbed his nose, conceding the point with a small smile. "I wasn't too diplomatic," he admitted. "Cowley's going to have to do something about upgrading their training. It's a bloody disgrace when you think how long Burrows has been on strength. There are two more due to start at the end of next week."

"You can't deny we need the manpower. Anyway, training is what the Old Man says he brought us back for. I'm starting to believe it."

"Better late than never, I suppose," remarked a familiar voice.

Turning, they saw Cowley looking as rested as if he had been on a fortnight's holiday.

 

Their reports to Cowley completed, Bodie and Doyle found themselves free to leave just before dawn, yawning as they made their way down to the car park.

"I don't know how he does it," muttered Bodie, flapping his limp and creased shirt against the humidity of the August night.

"Nor me. D'you think we might actually get an uninterrupted night's kip?" asked Doyle, propping himself on the bonnet of his car.

"I hate to mention it, but it's quarter to four in the morning," pointed out Bodie, viewing the small distance to his car with disfavour. "I thought the whole point of this Alpha Two lark was to give us a cover. We've been bloody well running the place for nearly three weeks and from what Cowley was just saying it sounds like he expects us to do it again. D'you think he's had that in mind the whole time?" It was a point which had been bothering him with increasing persistence.

"Dunno, and I'm too knackered to care right now. Would never have believed sitting on my bum all day could be so tiring," remarked Doyle giving a bone-popping stretch, taking his healed body for granted by now. Complete recovery had occurred some time during the last two and a half weeks, virtually unnoticed save that he could sleep on his side and no longer had to strangle untimely yelps of anguish when he made an incautious move.

Bodie nodded but did not speak, in danger of falling asleep on his feet.

"Get home to bed," Doyle advised him, aware of the extent to which Bodie had taken the weight of responsibility for the agents under his care. You'd have to know him well to recognise it, he's so bloody laid back - until someone fucks up. I keep forgetting he used to be a sergeant in the SAS. Still, I bet Burrows won't.

"You'll be talking to yourself next," remarked Bodie, digging his car keys from a back pocket. "What's that grin for?"

"I was just thinking about you with young Burrows. We could do some good on the training front. They've got a lot to learn - some of which we can teach them."

"Like not impersonating Dirty Harry in Streatham High Street," completed Bodie with remembered displeasure. "Bloody Burrows. It took me an hour to calm down the local CID and councillors."

"That's a turn up for the books."

Bodie's look of hauteur melted into a wry grin. "I suppose it is a bit like the pot calling the kettle black. And you can stop smirking, you've had your moments."

"Ancient history," said Doyle quietly, the realisation that his day would never come again biting into him anew.

In the silence which followed Bodie flexed his tense shoulders. "For both of us, don't forget that. We were going to have a talk, remember?" There was just enough light for him to see Doyle's face wipe clean of all expression.

"I hadn't forgotten."

"It looks like we have the time now. When would suit you?"

Viewing his companion with a wary eye Doyle refrained from snapping at him. Bodie was making the effort, that had to mean something. "Whenever. What's today?" he asked with every appearance of normality. "Thursday?"

"Close, Friday morning. It should be an easy day, or it could wait until the weekend."

"You want to spend all of it talking to me? Sorry," apologised Doyle immediately. "All right, tomorrow night. Tonight, I mean."

"Where?" asked Bodie, encouraged by the faint sign of a thaw.

"The White Hart."

"Too public."

"Why, what have you got in mind?" Fidgeting, an abrasive edge had returned to Doyle's voice.

His expression told Bodie nothing, except the fact he wanted to hide something. "About the other week in your flat - " he began awkwardly " - I'm -"

" - not looking for a repeat? That's lucky."

Bodie flinched but made no attempt to defend himself, too drained to be able to hide his unhappiness. The last seventeen days had been so busy there had been periods when he had forgotten the ugly scenes between them. Abruptly they all came crashing back.

"We can use my flat if you want." Doyle surprised himself by the offer. He didn't want to be alone with Bodie, not off-duty, and particularly not in the privacy of his flat. It was too temptingly easy to forget Bodie was off-limits.

"Your flat?" repeated Bodie blankly.

"Well, we can hardly use yours, can we?" retorted Doyle, a bitter twist to his mouth as he thought of Inger. "I'm off home. I'll see you tonight, eight-thirty."

Bodie remained standing in the centre of the car park for some time after Doyle had driven away.


	9. Chapter 9

NINE

 

"If you're not too grand for the likes of me, how about that drink we were supposed to have a few weeks back?" said Murphy, having discovered Bodie working his way through the backlog of personal post which he had collected when he got home but had been too tired to read earlier that day.

"Sure. Have you got the time?" Disposing of his junk mail, Bodie's attention was on one letter.

"And the inclination. You're sounding more like the Old Man all the time. I've even written my reports up. I've got the rest of the day off and as Jackie's on duty until seven and it's pissin' with rain, I thought I might as well waste a couple of hours with you before I kip down."

"Glad to hear I won't be wasting your valuable time," said Bodie dryly.

"My pleasure. 'S weird, isn't it. We were so rushed you called in everyone who could hobble, and now? The place is dead as a dodo."

"Don't speak too soon," said Bodie, casting an unconscious glance at the letter he held.

"What's that you're holding - love letter?"

"More like a practical joke. Read it."

Taking the letter Bodie had handed him, Murphy scanned the typewritten sheet with speed. "Nothing funny about this. Your personal belongings have been in storage since last June and the firm want to know what you want done with the stuff. Where's the problem?"

"The problem is that I've never heard of the place. I didn't put anything in storage."

"What did you do with all your belongings?"

"Left hem behind, of course. I travel light."

Murphy digested the implication. "Was there much stuff?"

"Enough for half a dozen packing cases, I suppose."

"Don't you want them back?"

"That isn't the point," Bodie growled, less than delighted to realise how much it would mean to see some of his possessions again, he who had sworn never to get hung up on or tied down by things.

A bland expression concealing his curiosity, Murphy gave a non-committal grunt of support.

"I wonder who organised this," added Bodie thoughtfully.

"I should think it must have been Ray. He had to do everything else." Remembering why he had wanted a word with Bodie in the first place, the friendly light faded from Murphy's eyes.

Not choosing to follow that up, Bodie tucked the letter into a pocket along with three bills. "I suppose I'd better sort it out."

"Give them a ring now. I'm in no hurry. You can probably settle up by credit card, save you writing. Where's the storage depot?" 

"Battersea. I may as well. D'you want to wait in the pub?"

"No rush. I can read the paper."

"You can't read 'The Sun'," said Bodie with scorn.

"I don't intend to, mate. Page 3 will do for me."

It took Bodie only a short while to arrange for his belongings to be kept in storage until he moved into his CI5 flat. To his surprise he learnt that he only owed the firm for the cost of the next week's storage. Exerting all his charm, he asked who had footed the bill; the idea of Cowley authorising CI5 to pay it was mind-boggling.

Seemingly engrossed in a three-day old paper, Murphy watched Bodie's expression as he waited. Murphy had worked with Bodie on a number of occasions over the years, Doyle too. As workmates he trusted them implicitly, and had come to enjoy the company of both men off- duty. But he preferred to socialise with them on an individual basis; being the third man in the Bodie and Doyle double act could be a lonely feeling. He was also one of the few people on the Squad who knew both men well enough to be aware of the change in them. It was the difference in Bodie's manner which he found the hardest to accept. While Bodie had always been an arrogant bastard on the surface, he had never been vindictive or petty. An inadvertent witness to the culmination of the workout between the ex-partners in the gym, only Macklin had stopped Murphy from wading in to break it up. Since then, work permitting, Murphy had been doing some hard thinking on the subject of his two friends. He was less than happy with his conclusions.

He resurfaced to hear Bodie say, "Ray Doyle? Thank you. How much? Yes, very reasonable given your overheads. Thanks for your help."

"how much is 'how much'?" asked Murphy, tossing the paper onto the chair next to him.

Bodie told him without realising what he was doing. 

"Seems a bit steep, doesn't it?" Murphy asked chattily. "No wonder Ray's so careful when it comes to buyin' his round."

"No one asked him to do it," said Bodie defensively, allowing himself to be steered out into the damp afternoon and across the road to the pub, which was crowded with lunchtime regulars and those anxious to escape the rain. He ordered a Stella Artois for himself and a Guinness for his companion.

"Maybe not, but if he didn't, the likelihood is that the stuff would've been thrown out," said Murphy as they edged away from the crowd at the bar to one of the few available tables. "We're always short on accommodation. Cowley held off for a couple of days after Ray got back before he ordered the place cleared. Ray saw to that, too. It was him or strangers," he pointed out when Bodie frowned.

Murphy did not enjoy remembering the Ray Doyle of that period, Doyle's icy manner and chilling efficiency disquieting to anyone who knew him. A perfect killing machine, Doyle had undertaken every job he was given without question or protest. It had been a relief to see signs of the old Ray Doyle during the last couple of weeks when pressure of work had stripped away the veneer of detachment he had been cultivating.

"Anyone would think I'd died," dismissed Bodie, concentrating on his lager.

"That might have been easier on Ray in some ways." The edge in Murphy's voice made Bodie look up.

"Thanks very much."

"At least he would have known how and why. We took it for granted he knew what was behind your leaving. he tried to cover but it was obvious he didn't and that it was tearin' him apart. Ray shut himself off with a vengeance after that. Managed to scare the shit out of the new bloke Cowley teamed him with," Murphy added, determined that a few things should be made clear to the man opposite him.

"New bloke?" echoed Bodie, never having dared to give Doyle's future in CI5 without him much thought, aware that it was the pathway to potential grief.

"One of the new intake. Cowley gave him the boot after two months. You left at a bad time. Our numbers were already down when we lost Cookie and Reynolds; Allison was invalided out. New blood was brought on strength before they were ready. Cowley wanted Ray to break Nowell in. It was a disaster. Nowell wouldn't have made the grade anyway but it didn't help that he was bloody terrified of Doyle. I can't say I was keen on bein' around him myself," Murphy finished pensively.

"Come off it. I know Ray can be a pain in the arse on occasion, but this is Doyle we're talking about, not Mad Tommy," protested Bodie. While never one of the boys, Doyle had always been reasonably well thought of by the Squad, reserving the brunt of his moods - good and bad - for his partner.

"You weren't there," snapped Murphy. "Ray was as cold as ice. Nothing reached him. I'm telling you, there were times he scared me."

Staring at the chipped varnish of the table they were occupying, Murphy remembered the time when everyone had been working a minimum of eighteen hours a day as they went all out to catch the Iranian terrorist cell who had been eliminating exiles inimical to the present regime. Doyle had spear-headed both that operation and the hunt for the Lister gang, humanity banished, seemingly never tired or touched by the carnage. There had been many deaths, including the eight-year old girl no one had known was a hostage, murdered when CI5 broke into the warehouse. Nothing had reached Doyle, who had worn a mask for a face, a mask which never seemed to have known laughter or tenderness. Remembering, Murphy told Bodie it all.

"Of course, anyone who knew Ray knew he couldn't last the pace," Murphy continued, staring into his pint. "Even Cowley had to have known Ray would crack, the signs were all there. And Ray probably would have done if he hadn't got himself shot - or maybe that's why it happened."

The sounds of pub-life faded into the background, Bodie's only focus his companion's face. "Ray was shot?"

"Three times. Twice in the shoulder, back and front, once in the lung. Missed his heart by that much. And because Nowell was too scared to admit Doyle hadn't collected him that morning Ray nearly bled to death on the floor of his lounge. He was five feet from the phone. The doctors said he couldn't have made it. I reckon he couldn't be bothered to try meself."

"He's certainly given up now," said Bodie, feeling numb. Ray shot because there was no one to guard his back. His jacket was caught in Murphy's fist, a furious face only inches from his own.

"You moronic bastard," Murphy hissed venomously. "What the fuck would you know about it? What justifies treatin' the bloke who's guarded your back for five years like that!"

Bodie levered Murphy's hand away with a deadly control. "Fancy him yourself, do you?" His smile faded only when Murphy stalked out of the saloon bar.

Bodie was still sitting at the table, an island of silence in the hubbub of lunchtime revellers, when the sound of glass landing on wood made him look up to see Murphy sliding a double brandy over to him.

"Take it," Murphy advised him tightly. "But no cracks, or so help me I'll - "

"Yeah, I know," acknowledged Bodie tiredly. His eyes, dark with shock, looked bruised.

The spirit burned his throat, but it settled the churning upheaval in his stomach caused by the images Murphy had conjured up. Bodie had seen atrocities committed on other human beings and felt nothing. But this was Doyle. He wanted to be alone very badly. He wanted to howl his remorse to the moon; to release the guilt which had lain dormant in him for over a year. But such a display would solve nothing. Besides, there were things he needed to know.

"How badly was Ray hurt?" He knew the answer already. No wonder Ray's been on a different training schedule, or that Brian's been so concerned. And save for Doyle himself there had been no conspiracy of silence; everyone would assume he knew. What made it worse was the fact Bodie could understand why Doyle hadn't told him. Treatment I've been meting out Ray must have expected me... What a mess.

"he died on the operating table." Murphy made no attempt to soften the news. "It was bad. he's made a great recovery though - fit for anything but combat duty. And that's only because our standards are the highest in the country."

"You went to see Ray." It mattered somehow that Doyle should have had someone to care, his family wouldn't have.

"You could say that." Murphy's bitter tone brought Bodie's head up. "Ray won't remember it and that's the way it will stay - unless you decide to tell him, of course."

"Tell him what, Murph?"

"He got an infection. Wasn't responding to treatment. He'd given up, you see. Even off his head he didn't say much. Asked for you a couple of times, seemed to have forgotten you'd left. He had Cowley worried enough to send me in with a tape of your voice. To anyone as sick as Ray I was close enough in looks to pass muster. Brought him back anyway. The medics did the rest. I sometimes wonder if I did him any favours."

Bodie opened his mouth, met the other man's unyielding stare and closed it again. 

"Whatever happened between you two, whatever reasons you had, Ray's paid." Murphy disposed of his own brandy in three gulps. Phlegmatic and not easily ruffled, the intensity of emotion he had glimpsed in the delirious Ray Doyle, a man he had assumed he knew well, had thrown his life out of kilter, forcing him to look deep into himself.

"I'll tell you something for nothing," he continued, his voice hard and flat, "something I learnt about myself then. I've never felt for anyone what Ray feels - felt anyway - for you. I don't think I ever will. And I'm not sorry. I've seen the cost." Abruptly embarrassed at having revealed so much of himself, Murphy rose to his feet in a hurry.

"Murph!" Catching hold of the other man's wrist, Bodie forced himself to meet the other man's eyes. "Thanks for telling me."

"Thought you needed to know," said Murphy quietly. About to leave, he paused. "You and Ray have proved yourselves over and over again during the last couple of weeks - if in a different way from how it used to be. I wouldn't want to see that change."

Bodie watched the tall figure wend his way through the crowd before his attention returned to the table top. The landlord's heavy handed hints finally penetrating, Bodie left the pub and found himself in the seething ants' nest of London. The traffic was free-flowing for once, tourists and workers moving along the crowded pavements in concentrated, purposeful eddies. It was still raining, the leaden sky offering the promise of little else.

Sheltering in an office doorway, Bodie glanced at his watch. More than six hours before he was due to see Doyle for their pre-arranged meeting. Suddenly he knew he couldn't wait that long. He had to see Doyle now, to reassure himself that Ray had survived. He needed to tell him...

What? That this time round will be different? That it's all been a terrible mistake? He'll take a bit of convincing. Then tell him he's still loved, that he always was only I couldn't admit it, even to myself. Never could. Easier to run from it: Marika at nineteen; Jenny at twenty-two and then Ray, learning nothing in between. Refusing to admit something doesn't make it any less true. Or can I only recognise the worth of something when it's lost? Am I that sick?

His emotions in a turmoil, Bodie began to walk towards Westminster, just for something to fill the time. Careless of the rain soaking him, he circled Parliament Square twice before heading down Whitehall. He had learnt a little more about what went on in this government's corridors of power recently, enough to confirm this wasn't the life for him. He wanted action, not discussion, freedom rather than crushing responsibility for those in his care. It was one thing to go out and do and die, quite another to select others for the task; to brief them and wait. 

It's no wonder Cowley gets a bit tetchy at times, he thought, but it was impossible to keep his mind away from Doyle.

Stopping in his tracks so abruptly that the man behind cannoned into him, Bodie was deaf to his uncomplimentary mutterings, busy conceding defeat to an internal urging. He needed to see Doyle. Not to speak to him necessarily, not yet. But he needed to confirm to his own satisfaction that Doyle was alive and safe. Later he would try and make him happy.

His decision made, much of the tension left Bodie's face. He began to jog back the way he had come, his regular stride eating up the yards, feeling more at peace with himself than he had for a very long time. 

Returned to headquarters, Bodie was relieved to note the air of torpor about the place. Conversely, rooms and corridors were more crowded than was usual as agents found any excuse not to complete their paperwork - gossiping, drinking tea, chatting up passing secretaries or frankly dozing. It was an indication that all was serene in Cowley's world after a hellish couple of weeks. Wondering where to begin his search for Doyle, a harsh voice made Bodie turn.

"Blimey, you're wet!"

It was Stuart, wearing a broad smile. Shaking the hand extended to him, Bodie greeted him with unusual warmth, welcoming the blessed normality of unstrained contact with someone he had never known that well, except by the reputation bolstered by Doyle's approval.

"How's life on the other side of the fence?" asked Stuart as they headed into the locker room.

"Disconcerting," admitted Bodie, taking with gratitude the towel Stuart tossed him.

"You sorry you switched?"

The abrupt questions continued to be fired at him. Knowing enough of Stuart to be aware it was no more than the other man's usual manner, Bodie answered them with a degree of honesty, learning what he could in his turn. It came as no surprise to discover that Stuart was aware of the drop in the department's morale, despite the fact he spent the majority of his working life away from the mainstream of operations working undercover south of the river.

"How's Doyle makin' out? He looked rough when I saw him a month back. I can't say he looks much better these days. Macklin's not riding him too hard?"

Not Macklin, no.

Managing an easy smile, Bodie shook his head. "For once, he's not. In fact he's pacing Ray very carefully. I think that it's getting to Ray. Unnerving to have Macklin fussing over you."

Stuart's bony face lost some of its watchful quality. "It must be. Most blokes who've taken the kind of pasting Doyle's taken don't try to make it back. Having been there himself Brian knows how rough it can be."

It was something Bodie was trying not to dwell on, familiar enough with Macklin's history to know how long it had taken him, and how deep his scars went.

"Doyle's a good bloke," Stuart continued with seeming inconsequence.

Trying to subdue his still damp hair, Bodie met the other man's eyes in the mirror. "I know," he said without resentment for the warning he saw there.

Stuart held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding. "I suppose you must do. Did you come in to offer him some moral support?"

"Eh? For what?"

"Relax," said Stuart, handing Bodie a comb, "Doyle will probably survive but I wouldn't like to put money on some of the others. Due to the sudden lull Cowley decided the new boys and girls could do with a pep talk to sharpen their ideas up. So he organised a lecture for this afternoon and sicked 'em onto Doyle. Gave him ten minutes' notice. Ray's in the film theatre with them now. I would've gone in to listen but he kicked me out. He wasn't too happy at the prospect."

"I can imagine," said Bodie with feeling. "We weren't supposed to start that side of things until we've done more homework ourselves. Is Ray going to be using the projector, do you know?"

"I overheard him ringing down for a couple of films. He was desperate for something to fill up the time. Cowley's expecting him to keep that lot quiet for three and a half hours. They don't think much of the prospect either. Seem to think they know it all, that lot," added Stuart with a disdainful sniff.

"I thought I was the only one." Bodie's grin was one of fellow feeling.

"Are you kidding? That's why I wanted to listen in. If anyone can shatter a few of their illusions it's Doyle. Poor bugger. I know what I'd rather face than that lot," said Stuart with decision. 

"Me too. I haven't seen the film theatre yet, that's new since my day. Strewth, listen to me. You'd think I was ninety," sighed Bodie ruefully. 

"It's on the floor above. You're not thinking of sneaking in? Doyle will do his nut."

"He's mellowed." Wary of hoping, Bodie chose his words with care.

"You reckon? I know he's been a bit quiet of late but I wouldn't go that far. Not judging by the way he tore into Cowley lunchtime."

"Ray lost his temper?"

"That's one way of putting it. I missed most of it because Cowley slammed the door," admitted Stuart cheerfully. "Truth to tell it was a relief to hear Ray arguing the toss again. I've bin a bit worried about him. Cowley's had the pair of you doing the work of four."

"We noticed."

"So did a lot of other people. I'm sorry I missed most of it. From all accounts you handled yourselves OK. The Old Man can certainly use some back-up. You wouldn't believe the paperwork he has us doing now."

"I'm learning," said Bodie, dressing in dry clothes from his locker with despatch. "Haven't you ever thought about changing your coding?"

"No point. I'm happy where I am. Cowley gives me a free rein for the most part. I try and keep my share of the bargain. Right, I'm off home. I'm bushed. I dunno how the Cow does it. We were all fit to drop and he was still rarin' to go."

So was Bodie, although he had managed to hide the fact quite well until now. "See you around, mate. I'm off to the pictures."

Stuart gave him a shrewd look. "Best keep your head down, then. Doyle's mood won't have improved and he hasn't lost his touch for the odd pungent phrase."

That warning was the best news Bodie had heard for weeks. "If Ray's going to flatten those arrogant little pricks I want to be there to hear it."

"You've met Burrows, then," remarked Stuart, but he spoke to Bodie's back, the other man already halfway down the corridor.

 

Sliding into the darkened film theatre without a sound, Bodie immediately recognised the film being shown, together with all the cast. Anson, Reynolds, Turner, Allison, Lewis, Doyle and himself, Jenkins and Sally, each giving their all to their starring roles in enacting a classic siege situation. Remembering the fun they'd had making it, Bodie gave a broad grin.

Sally had been less than amused when she had discovered her own role to be no more than a hysterical hostage. Sabotaging the script, she had kneed Anson in the balls and taken Turner out when he'd tried to go to Anson's rescue. She'd even turned on her gallant rescuers when he, Doyle and Jenkins had arrived. Bodie found himself hoping that part had been cut; Sally fought dirty.

Having taken a seat in an otherwise empty back row, Bodie soon realised that the small audience of eleven were less than attentive, snatches of overheard conversations indicating that none of those present thought they should be subjected to this. Most vocal were the group seated directly in front of him: Burrows, Brown and a girl Bodie couldn't place. Unnoticed in his seat, he eavesdropped shamelessly while wondering where Doyle was.

Probably sloped off to get a drink, he thought with affection. Poor sod having this dumped on him with no warning. Sharp as needles this lot are, and new and young enough to be full of themselves. Too inexperienced to realise how little they know, even if some of them have survived seven months of service.

His reading of the files had convinced him that, whatever Cowley's staffing difficulties, the Scot continued to keep newcomers on a tight leash.

Five months he kept us poncing around, with only the odd job to keep the adrenalin flowing, giving us time to find our feet and develop confidence and trust in each other - and him. It took us over a year to realise the allocation of assignments wasn't the haphazard business it seemed. 

It felt odd to watch a little of his past captured on celluloid, even if the director hadn't concerned himself with lighting or camera angles. Shame really, a few lingering close-ups of Ray would go down a treat, Bodie mused wistfully.

Watching the action and interaction of the figures on the screen, he easily recognised everyone despite the masks and hoods they wore. What he saw only confirmed what a good team he and Doyle had made. They'd dispensed with most of their dialogue, a glance or a gesture enough to dictate their next course of action. They had driven Thomas and Jack Crane mad. They hadn't even done it on purpose, it was just the way they worked. Bodie felt a pang that they would never do so again. 

It feels right to see Ray and me together. That's how it should have stayed. How it will be again.

That decided to his satisfaction, Bodie relaxed and enjoyed the audible comments floating back to where he sat regarding the various performances. He preened a little when the lady in front of him selected his own undeniably superior physique for a favourable appraisal.

"Built like a brick outhouse," snapped a dismissive voice.

Burrows, Bodie identified with a prickle of irritation.

"That's Bodie," the voice added.

"How can you tell?" asked Brown.

"I can tell. What a waste of an afternoon. What the fuck can a bunch of burned-out has-beens teach us? I wouldn't mind but Bodie cracked up and Doyle fucked up and got himself shot. If they're an example Cowley can stuff it."

"This outburst wouldn't have anything to do with your little run-in with Bodie earlier this week, I suppose?" asked the girl, sounding coolly amused.

Bodie gave a satisfied smirk.

"No," replied Burrows shortly before he burst out, "I'm sick of being told how bloody wonderful that pair were."

"I can't say I've enjoyed listening to you whinge on about it either," said Brown dispassionately.

"You want to try and stop me?"

"It wouldn't take much effort."

Listening while the two men bickered, Bodie felt a strong sense of deja vu. It could have been Doyle and himself in their first few months together. We never really lost that competitive edge either, he realised.

"Be quiet the pair of you," said the girl, her incisive tone causing a momentary lull. "When you've survived five years on the Squad you can boast about how good you are."

"Brown nose," sneered Burrows.

"Besides," mused the girl, ignoring the interruption, "I wouldn't call Doyle old, exactly. He's more middle-aged."

Bodie stared at the back of her head with outraged disbelief. Ray middle-aged? He's thirty-five - OK, thirty-six -years old. As for the rest, Burrows might have a point but I'd back Ray to take any two of them on and win.

"Whatever Doyle is he's got a way of getting results," offered Brown, his tone grudging. "I worked with him a couple of weeks back."

"Big deal," snorted Burrows. "I worked with Bodie. So?"

"Didn't you learn anything?" asked the girl.

"Sure, he takes sugar in his tea and doesn't like liver sausage or pickle. What are you grinning at?"

"Me? Nothing," denied Brown peaceably. "Just that Jax got the impression you might have got more out of it."

"Cowley's still the best," said the positive voice of the girl, rescuing Burrows from a difficult moment. "He trusts you to get on with it. With Bodie and Doyle I get the impression they think they could do it faster, quieter and better themselves."

"They're probably right where you're concerned," said Burrows nastily.

"Strange it wasn't you Cowley asked for then, wasn't it?" retorted the girl with suspect sweetness. "You know your trouble, Andy, you always have to have the last word."

"I don't," he denied hotly.

Brown sniggered. "Then I wonder what went wrong a few minutes ago."

"So Doyle can come up with a fast answer."

Bodie's look of satisfaction intensified, Burrow's sulky tone enabling him to guess what must have happened. Ray's never been one to suffer fools, never mind gladly. Like as not there wouldn't have been anything to warn the uninitiated of his mood either.

"I shouldn't think he's often at a loss," remarked the girl dispassionately. "He's another one who likes to have the last word."

Unseen, Bodie nodded, remembering how much that particular trait of Doyle used to annoy him.

"Are you saying we're alike?" demanded Burrows belligerently.

"Not in the least - more's the pity."

"Got the hots for him, have you? Think you could do yourself some good there?"

The girl turned, giving Bodie a glimpse of a remarkably attractive profile. "If I was stupid enough to limit my chances to this place I wouldn't waste my time on the Ice Man."

"Give it a rest, will you," complained Brown. "It's my bet Doyle will have us analysing this bloody film inside out and backwards and we've missed a good half of it already."

After a couple of token complaints from Burrows the conversation came to an end. Bodie had already stopped listening. The Ice Man? Ray? Maybe that was how he seemed to those who didn't know any better. 

Remembering all too vividly how it had been, Bodie sat staring blindly at the screen. This time he had to dwell on the past, learn from his mistakes. The last couple of weeks had been easy, but with the crisis over... Able to think of no magic solution, he knew only that he had to try to put things right. You couldn't turn round to share a joke with your pride, feel it sink deep into your body, drink a pint in silent companionship, or curl up together against the pre-dawn chill.

The glare of the lights, which coincided with the last frame of the film, caught Bodie as much by surprise as everyone else, his line of retreat cut off when he heard Doyle's voice only yards from where he sat. Slumping in his seat, his head down, Bodie hoped without much conviction that his presence would go unnoticed amongst the others. On his recent showing Doyle would have little cause to believe other than that he had come to heckle.

"I hope you enjoyed the film because it's a classic of its kind. Those of you involved in the Mahoney op. should have recognised its relevance. You'll find note pads and pencils in the back of the seats in front of you - those in the front row can use their initiative," Doyle added, forestalling would-be comedians. "Without conferring I want to know the number and location of the hostages, number of terrorists, their nationalities, weaponry, number of windows to the front of the house and other means of access. How many people were in the room when it started? How many at the end? There were two deliberate errors of judgment; what were they? Then I - "

"Hang on!" The protests came from several throats, some people yet to scramble for a notepad.

"Why?" asked Doyle reasonably as he prowled down the side aisle. "If you were in the field the odds are there wouldn't be time for the luxury of makin' notes - assuming there was someone there to brief you in the first place. If you haven't learnt that much by now I don't know what you're doing here."

"Nor do we," muttered a rebellious voice, pitched to carry.

"Slow on the uptake as ever, Burrows? We'll have to do something about that."

Fatalistically Bodie looked up to find Doyle only five feet away from him, ostensibly staring at Burrows. But Bodie was under no illusions.

"You pride yourself on your powers of observation, I know," continued Doyle, a smile calculated to irritate on his face.

"I haven't missed much so far - unlike some people." Burrows gave Doyle a pointed glance, having been in the physiotherapy section while Doyle was being lectured by Ken earlier that day.

"That must be very satisfying for you. Then perhaps you'll tell me who's sitting behind you. It isn't," Doyle added gently, "necessary for anyone to turn round."

Bodie smothered a grin of approval, wondering why he had doubted Doyle's ability to cope.

"The seat's empty," said Burrows with a confidence which bordered on contempt. "The whole row is."

Having recognised his cue Bodie was already moving, his forearm locked under Burrows's jaw before either of Burrows's companions could react. "Really?" he drawled, tightening his grip to the point of discomfort. Has-been, eh? 

There was some laughter at Burrows's expense from the group which Doyle allowed little time to develop. 

"Tempting as it may be, don't break it, Bodie. We may want to play with it later. Right, enough frivolity. I'm waiting to be convinced the rest of you are more observant than Andy. You have thirty minutes to make your report and analyses and offer three alternatives to the action you saw on screen for breaking the siege. Don't even think of being humorous, I'm not in the mood. Thirty minutes," Doyle repeated, turning on his heel. "Bodie, a word in your ear." He was already heading for the exit.

With an inward sigh and an outward calm, Bodie followed him, not sure what to expect, still having difficulty in reading Doyle's bearded face on occasion.

"Seen enough, have you?" enquired an acid voice the moment they were out of earshot of the group. Propped against the wall, his pelvis thrust forward, the sole of a trainered foot flat against the plaster, Doyle was on the offensive, aware it had been a mistake to stay and watch the film. They'd had fun with the training exercise, and fun together. It had been a too poignant reminder of what he had lost, sabotaging his resolve to keep Bodie at a distance. 

How do I keep a part of myself distanced? 

"I thought you might be able to use some moral support," muttered Bodie defensively, his stance a little hunched, his hands in his pockets.

"I could. What are you doing here?"

Pinned by Doyle's unblinking stare, Bodie did not look away but he made no effort to reply in kind. "Maybe I earned that, but I meant what I said. This," he gestured back to the film theatre, "isn't what we're used to. You're doing great."

His warm, unforced smile slid through Doyle's defences. His attention divided between Bodie and his current unpalatable assignment, he responded in the way he would have done fourteen months ago. "That was the easy part. What do I do with them now?"

"Carry on as you are, mate. You were brilliant, even had me fooled at first."

"That's not difficult." Seeing Bodie's mouth tighten at his sharp retort, Doyle made a gesture of apology. "It doesn't help with what to do with them now, does it," he said in a milder tone, returning to what had become his major preoccupation since Cowley had button-holed him.

"That bunch of no-hopers." Bodie gave a disparaging sniff.

"I wish it was that simple. You missed the beginning. They're bright, they're sharp and they're hungry for glory. It's like being a soddin' lion tamer. I'm not cut out for this." Looking harassed, Doyle brushed his hair back with an impatient gesture; thick and uncompromisingly straight, the top portion of hair remained erect in stark, if appealing, contrast to his previous style. "I need a drink," he added with conviction.

"I'll buy you one as soon as this is over," Bodie promised him. "Relax, sunshine. Honest, you're more than holding your own." Turning, he peered through the wire-meshed window at the top of the door. "Take a look for yourself," he invited. "Even Burrows is writing for all he's worth - cocky little shit."

Remembering where Bodie had been seated, Doyle gave a grin of comprehension. "Eavesdroppers rarely hear any good of themselves."

"I can vouch for that. You were there the whole time?"

"Of course. It's not my fault if they're so trusting they believe everything they're told. I thought they might slope off if I left," Doyle admitted.

"We would've done."

"We did, only Cowley caught us."

"So he did," remembered Bodie ruefully. "Banished us to Archives for three days."

"And tore up our expenses for the month. Bloody computerisation. If we still had Archives I wouldn't have got lumbered with this. How come Cowley didn't nobble you?" asked Doyle darkly, remembering his ex-partner's skill at avoiding uncongenial tasks.

"Sheer good luck. I was over the road, having a jar with Murphy."

"Bloody typical," said Doyle without heat, events of the past year far to the back of his mind by this time. "Are they still quiet?"

Bodie peered back in. "Yes," he reported, surprised. "I'm impressed, Ray. How d'you manage it?"

"They're so earnest they probably think I'm going to give them marks and they don't want a bad report going to Cowley. How did you enjoy the film? I half thought you were going to lay into Burrows at one point. If he got up your nose, just be thankful you couldn't hear what they were saying three rows down from me. To hear them talk you'd think we were lucky to survive shaving in the morning."

Glancing at his bearded companion Bodie swallowed his flippant reply. "Arrogant little pricks. We were never this bad," he said with conviction.

"I dunno, I should think you must have been. Shit, will you look at the time," added Doyle with consternation, aware he had another ninety-five minutes to fill and no idea of what to fill them with.

"Relax," soothed Bodie, "you'll have them eating out of the palm of your hand before you're finished. Why tell them anything? They're being trained to think, aren't they? Then let them have some practice - they can certainly use it. Get one of them to analyse the op. and let the others rip it apart. They'll do your work for you if you play your cards right."

"That's brilliant," decided Doyle, having considered the proposal from all angles.

"I know. I'll see you when this is over. We can go and have a drink." Bodie looked askance at the hand Doyle locked over his wrist.

"The hell you will, you're coming back in there with me," Doyle announced, heading through the swing doors.

Caught in that strong grip, dignity - and personal preference - left Bodie with no option but to follow him.

 

"Sod," said Bodie with feeling as Doyle led the way up in to the projection room. "Since when have you regarded me as an expert in tactics?"

"Can you see to the clips on that side? Cheers. You should be grateful. It's given you a better idea of what to expect when it's your turn." The reels of film back in their containers, Doyle paused to flick the light off with his chin, a can of film under each arm, leaving Bodie to lock the door. "Bloody Cowley. I can't face many sessions like that, I tell you. But I can understand their lack of enthusiasm. How would we have liked some old fart pratting on about how little we knew?"

"We wouldn't but... You're not old!" protested Bodie, side-tracked.

Entering the film library and setting the cans down on the counter with relief, Doyle gestured to his beard. "This says otherwise."

As Doyle's attention was engaged by the technician who was booking the film back in, Bodie was free to study his companion at his leisure, only now becoming aware of the almost indefinable changes in Doyle's body language. Bodie thought they must have been taking place over the last couple of weeks. It was nothing major, just the return of the easy, sensual walk, quick gestures of the beautiful hands and the range of expressions on his face. But more than that, it was the return of the life force which Bodie had been missing so much. The invisible man was back on view, and looking as if he enjoyed the sensation. Ray's safe, he thought with satisfaction, although he could not have explained the thought.

"Think you'll know me again?"

The tart enquiry made Bodie jump. "Don't do that," he said severely, trying not to notice how close they were before Doyle continued on his way. "As I was saying, you're not old. And don't point to the beard again. The only reason you grew it was because you know it makes you look bloody gorgeous," he finished unguardedly.

Doyle shot him a surprised glance but said only, "Let's go and have that drink. I've earned it. And you can stop grinning, you wait till it's your turn."

"I'm strictly the outdoor type," said Bodie smugly. "You can't do much talking in the field or on the range."

"No? You'd better have a word with Cowley then," said Doyle as they emerged in the car park, "because he's got you down for a session with that lot on Monday if things haven't livened up. You know his views on idle hands," he reminded his horror-stricken companion.

"I need a drink," said Bodie faintly. "A pint or two of scotch should do. You wouldn't think talking could be so tiring."

"After this afternoon I'd believe anything. Lead me to it. Where are we going?"

"Over the road or round the corner."

"Blimey, you must be desperate to drink this close to home," remarked Doyle, loping after him. He cannoned into the other man when Bodie backed out of the door heading to the public bar.

"Trouble?" Doyle's hand fell to his side, having reached for the gun he no longer carried.

"Relax," said Bodie, recognising the gesture. "The place is over-run, that's all."

"Let me guess, our eager young recruits?"

"Who else? And I for one have seen enough of their smiling faces to last me a lifetime. Let's find ourselves somewhere a long way away. I wouldn't mind a meal while we're at it. I'm starving."

"What's new? Though I could do with something myself," Doyle conceded, taking Bodie's hand in the small of his back for granted by this time, having reached the stage of mental relaxation where the resumption of normal relations with Bodie were all he expected.

"That's because of all the adrenalin pumping round inside you," instructed Bodie, perched on the left wing of his car.

"You could be right." Sensing that Bodie had something else he wanted to say, Doyle paused, still at his ease. "What is it?"

"So much for my poker face," sighed Bodie. "Back at the pub I saw you reach for what we're not carrying. We've talked about Cowley's job but... How are you coping with our change in status?"

His elbow on the roof of the car, Doyle rubbed his stomach, stuck his hand in his belt and thought about it. "Better than I was," he said at last. "I'll get used to it."

Bodie nodded. "Could you get used to being Alpha Two?"

"They say you can get used to anything." Meeting Bodie's worried blue eyes Doyle stopped prevaricating and opted for the truth. "No. I'll take responsibility for my life - and yours. And any poor sod who gets caught up in an op., but I'm not Cowley. I haven't got the mental equipment and I don't want it. I can't manoeuvre people like pawns and think of a grand plan. I can't triple think. And I don't intend to practise on green kids who are still wet behind the ears."

"The youngest is twenty-six, my age when I joined this mob."

"We're not talking chronological years and you know it. The training has been shot to hell. Some of them don't even take the routine precautions we had drummed into us by the end of the first week. That's why I had to send Jax and Ruth in on the Grosvenor op., I couldn't trust anyone else after Cowley had picked the cream of the newcomers. Lisa's good."

"Which one is she?"

"The girl in front of you with Burrows and Brown. It feels strange being a part of things, yet outside them. I can't say I'm enjoying investigating our own much."

"Not that we've had much chance recently," Bodie reminded him. Toeing a piece of gravel, he added, "I don't like it either. And I'm not handling it as well as you. But we shouldn't have to lead operations again - that was just special circumstances due to nutters coming out of the woodwork."

"Political extremists," Doyle corrected him in a passable imitation of Cowley.

Bodie's snort said it all.

"I wouldn't be so sure about Cowley's plans," mused Doyle. "He's up to something."

"Maybe he is. He'll be disappointed as far as I'm concerned." 

"Time was if Cowley told you to fly all you would have asked is how high."

Bodie's head shot up but he saw no malicious intent in the other man's face, only a faint puzzlement and a hint of sadness. "Like you said, people change," he mumbled.

"It was the Molner op., then."

"How the - ? That was part of it. The beginning of the end. I can take being set up only so many times. Then I - "

" - walk."

His gut tight with tension, Bodie tried to relax. "That's right. Work it out by yourself, did you?"

"Let's go and have that drink," sighed Doyle. He suddenly looked so tired that Bodie wanted to do nothing more than hold him, his resentment melting faster than snow in August.

"I don't like - "

" - talking about yourself?" anticipated Doyle without heat. "I noticed. Come on, we can use my car."

"You're right about the training of the new recruits," remarked Bodie once they were underway. "They're slack, sloppy and so far they've been bloody lucky. We could straighten them out between us." He hadn't intended to say so much so early but he needed to fill the silence between them before it had the chance to become awkward.

"Maybe."

While Doyle's response wasn't all he had hoped for, Bodie was content that they had taken a step in the right direction. "Things should get easier as I work my way in. Burrows might mellow," he added with little expectation. As he hoped, that made Doyle give a faint grin.

"Or you might. He reminds me of you a few years back. If he lives long enough he might even become as good."

"Ray - "

"So where are we eating?" interrupted Doyle with haste, wanting no return to the overtly personal, nothing which might break the spell. If he had learnt nothing else in the last fourteen months he had discovered that wallowing in misery brought only more misery.

"Wherever."

"There's a restaurant down the road from me. Quasi-Greek but edible. This early in the evening we should have the place to ourselves."

"Home, James," commanded Bodie majestically.

It was as if the rift had never been as they lingered over their meal, their conversation ranging through their tasks in CI5, events of the day, ideas for training and their lack of results in locating the mole. By the time they left neither man was making a conscious effort and they had fallen back into the habit of half-finished sentences and dreadful puns without being aware of it, avoiding any hint of the personal without even thinking about it. Still talking nineteen to the dozen they strolled down the quiet street and into the deserted cobbled courtyard.

Leading the way into his flat Doyle flicked the lights on and tossed his jacket in the direction of a chair. "I remembered to get some drink in. What will you have, Glenfiddich or Heineken?"

"Lager," Bodie called, walking into the sitting room. He stopped dead when he found himself facing nine tea chests sitting in the middle of the room. Remembering all too vividly when he had seen them last, the cosy facade he and Doyle had created tumbled down around him. Stricken, Bodie wheeled round. "Ray, I - " But he could think of nothing to say, nothing adequate anyway.

Small lines of stress replacing the laughter on his face, Doyle stared at him with a weary caution.

"We need to talk," said Bodie lamely, perching on one of the tea chests.

"I suppose we do," Doyle conceded without enthusiasm, tossing a can of Heineken over to him. His aim was a little off, his emotions in a jumble as reality crashed back in on him, all the crueller because he had allowed himself to enjoy the charade they had combined to create; a charade made all the easier because of their weeks of work-induced propinquity. "Where do you want to start?"

"Wish I knew." His gaze on his can of lager, Bodie saw Doyle splayed and shivering with pain on the carpet beneath him. His self-esteem at rock-bottom, he wondered if amnesiacs were to be pitied as much as he had always assumed. Gaining no response, he forced himself to look up. "Did you hear me, Ray?"

"Be difficult not to," snapped Doyle turning away to fumble in his jacket pockets. But he had forgotten to buy any cigarettes since Macklin had relieved him of his last packet over three weeks ago. 

"Is that all you've got to say?" demanded Bodie more sharply than he intended, noticing all the signs of withdrawal in the other man and not knowing how to combat them.

Staring at the confident figure who seemed to fill the room and his senses, acutely aware of Bodie and loathing himself for the surge of longing which swept over him, Doyle said, "It's a bit late for post-mortems, isn't it? I don't see that there's much to say. You've already made it clear I can't be trusted, I can't hold down a relationship - I can't even fuck. Christ, I even needed you to hold my hand on the job this afternoon. Unless I'm missing something that doesn't leave one hell of a lot."

This not the reaction of the Ray Doyle he knew, Bodie got to his feet. "I was wrong about a lot of things."

"That's a first. What brought this on?"

"Don't!" Bodie protested, hearing the brittle note in Doyle's voice. "I saw Murphy lunchtime. He told me you'd been shot, invalided out. I didn't know."

Doyle froze then made a bitter sound. "Oh, it only needed that - Bodie, the bleeding heart. Yeah, I was shot. I survived. I'm not proud it happened but I don't intend to hold an inquest over it either. It isn't something to be ashamed of." Only then did he recognise that guilt was exactly what he did feel about the episode. As if he had failed someone, if only himself. 

"I know it isn't," replied Bodie, his throat closing as he saw the other man's unconsciously defensive stance. "It isn't you who should feel ashamed but me. For a lot of things - from walking out on you to raping you." Doyle's face was devoid of expression, his unblinking eyes the colour of slate. "Ray, we have to talk about this. I have to explain."

"Not to me you don't. It's supposed to be a normal biological urge, isn't it? If you get another one take it home to Inger." A moment later Doyle added unwillingly, "I'd forgotten her. I suppose things must be a bit tricky for you now you've... settled down. What did you tell her?" he asked jerkily.

"What's she got to do with us?" Genuinely bewildered, Bodie was too engrossed in Doyle to remember the cruelty of the pretence he had practised. Too much had happened to him since then.

"Forget I asked," mumbled Doyle dully, aware he had been guilty of assuming the episode meant more to Bodie than a chance to even the score. "It won't happen again. Won't she be expecting you home soon?"

Only then did Bodie realise he hadn't told Doyle the truth. Having gone far beyond this point in his mind, the realisation came as something of a shock. "About Inger..." he began. "I should have told you the truth from the beginning but I was... afraid. Seeing you that first afternoon shook the hell out of me. Made me realise how much I... so I lied. Colin isn't Inger's and mine, we were looking after him for a week while her sister was in hospital. I wanted you to think... That is..." His courage lost, Bodie turned away, unable to bear the stricken expression on Doyle's face.

"You told me he was yours," said Doyle, each word precisely enunciated, as if to ensure he understood what he was saying.

"Yes." Bodie knew Doyle would understand why all too quickly. Ray had always been quick on the uptake. When the silence stretched onwards Bodie risked looking up to find Doyle still staring at him, his pain-filled eyes speaking for him.

"I didn't know it would hurt you this much," Bodie protested. Having been braced for rage, Doyle's tangible pain almost broke him.

"You told me he was yours. Christ, how you must hate me," Doyle whispered, deaf to the interruption. "Do you have any idea how it felt to know...?" He fell silent as Bodie swung away from him.

This second silence reached a level where Bodie could stand it no longer. "I can't pretend I didn't want to hurt you. I knew if I still meant anything to you it would. That's why I lied. I'd give a lot to turn the clock back. Everything I felt for you was so mixed up. I know it's asking a lot but... could we start again?" he mumbled almost inaudibly.

Gaining no response, Bodie turned. The room was empty. Calling out, he wasn't surprised when he received no answer but hoped illogically it was because he hadn't been heard. When he saw the open front door he realised he couldn't have been. Doyle's jacket was still slung over the chair and he found car keys, front door keys, wallet and loose change in the pockets. The soft leather clenched in his hands, the meal Bodie had eaten earlier congealed in a solid lump. Taking up the front door key and securing the flat he leapt down the stairs, taking them three and four at a time. The small courtyard was deserted, as was the long straight road leading from it.


	10. Chapter 10

TEN

It began to rain as Doyle reached the bottom of Parkway. Pausing, he studied the plethora of signposts, caring little where he went. He simply wanted to get as far away from Bodie as possible, afraid of what he might do otherwise. Selecting a road at random, he set off along Camden High Street.

Walking along the litter-strewn pavements, lights from the shuttered shops and stores provided an unwanted brilliance; the drizzle became a relentless downpour which left his shirt and jeans plastered to him. His head bent, Doyle lengthened his stride, his attention concentrated on the passage of his feet, oblivious to the few passers-by and the traffic alike. Instinct saw him across junctions, traffic lights and side roads.

An unknown time later, despite his exertions the chill dampness refused to be ignored any longer. Pausing to take stock of his surroundings, Doyle discovered he was about to cross Hammersmith Bridge, with no memory of having walked that far. Turning back, he was battered by the wind-lashed rain. Seeking refuge, he ran down the steps to the embankment. He hadn't been out this way since the Ann Seaford business. The force of the wind bearable in this more sheltered spot, he walked beside the wall which topped him, pausing when he saw that the wooden gate to the slipway had been left down. Resting his elbows on it, he stared into the river only a few feet below him. Hypnotised by the pattern of the rain on the surface of the water, divorced from the noise of the passing traffic on the bridge above him, he was impervious to the driving rain.

Seen it all had the Thames but it still kept on flowing. There was a lesson to be learnt there, even if there didn't seem much point to it.

What was that film he had taken Ann to see, the one that made her cry? 'Gone With the Wind', that was it. Leicester Square Odeon, queuing for forty-five minutes in the rain. Not that they had minded. It was enough that they were together, it hadn't mattered where.

The feeling had not survived for long, but in time Doyle had come to understand that Ann Holly had been more clear-sighted than he. While he had wanted her, he hadn't needed her. He'd had more than enough time to accept that he needed Bodie. What he couldn't come to terms with was the fact that Bodie didn't need him.

'Tomorrow is another day.'

Good for Scarlett. You had more guts than me, lady.

A touch on Doyle's shoulder brought him swinging round. He aborted his half-committed attack upon seeing who stood in front of him. "You shouldn't creep up on people like that," he said severely.

Water dripping from his helmet, the police constable didn't look old enough to be shaving.

It's supposed to be the first sign of old age when the coppers start to look young. But then in my line of work I'm an old man. Funny, I don't feel old. Don't feel much at all in fact.

"Are you feeling all right, sir?" asked the constable stolidly.

"Wonderful." Leaning back against the gate, Doyle shivered as he became aware of how cold and wet he was.

"It's a nasty old night to be out." The hearty manner would have sounded more convincing from a man thirty years the constable's senior.

"I suppose it is," agreed Doyle, irritated that he must make the effort. "Have you just come on duty?"

"A while ago now. It's just after three - in the morning. Wouldn't you be better off at home in bed?"

"I don't know," replied Doyle, replying to the nervously-voiced formula with truth. His newly-painted flat offered nothing he wanted, not even Bodie. Ironic that he should have ceased to want him only now.

The constable persevered. "How about a nice cup of tea?"

"Here?" Sardonically amused, Doyle glanced around, rain slick on his face.

"Down at the station."

"You're taking me in?" Doyle lost his air of abstraction.

"You'll feel better for a cup of tea in the warm."

"I doubt it." Doyle's irritation eased when he appreciated the cause for concern. "Relax, I'm wet enough without wanting to jump in. I've seen too many floaters in my time."

"Yes, sir," said the constable woodenly, lacking the experience to conceal his doubt. "But accidents will happen. Water can play funny tricks on a man."

"Oh bloody hell," sighed Doyle, realising he wasn't going to be left in peace. "I'm Ray Doyle, CI5, out taking the night air. Well, that's all you need to know anyway."

The wet figure straightened, dislodging another cascade of water from his helmet. "In that case you won't mind producing your identification." There was a noticeable change in the constable's manner, CI5 not popular with many on the Force.

"It's at home. I'm off-duty." Recognising all the signs, Doyle added, "If you're going to call in, patch me through to CI5 Control - and have a good explanation ready for your sergeant because you'll need it." He knew it was unfair but it was better than being made the laughing stock of CI5.

"CI5 Control?"

"That's right. Save the tax-payers' money. If I was you I'd try and find myself a nice dry spot for what's left of the night. There won't be much going on in this weather. I'm off home. 'Night." Setting off at a brisk pace before the youngster could comment, Doyle mentally catalogued the shortcuts available to a pedestrian, grateful he had retained his knowledge of Hammersmith. Stiff and chilled after his lengthy rest, he eased into a jog to warm himself before opening out into a run. Brian would love it if he pulled a muscle.

Doyle had London to himself at this time of the morning, the streets as quiet as they were ever likely to be. There were no pedestrians, it hadn't been a night to tempt revellers to loiter and the vagrants were all tucked into their regular dossing spots, almost indistinguishable in their cardboard homes from the refuse dumped by restaurateurs and shopkeepers. Even the traffic had eased to the occasional car, its tyres hissing wetly. The dingy streets achieved a kind of glamour now, glistening slickly in the rain. Street lights offered hazy circles of light, the headlights of the few passing cars giving brief, surrealistic flashes of illumination. Maintaining his steady pace, refusing to wonder how he would enter his high-security flat without some very embarrassing explanations to Control, he settled down to concentrate on his run, gratified to discover he hadn't lost condition during his weeks off training while he had been covering for Cowley.

Listening to the regular wet smack of his trainered feet, in tune with his body despite the minor discomforts engendered by soggy clothing, he became aware that he was content, in harmony with both himself and his surroundings for the first time in a long while.

 

Driving up Albany Street for the sixth time, having been sweeping the area as best he could since Doyle had left, Bodie was on the point of calling Control for assistance, hours of imagining the worst having overtaken his usual good sense. Turning into the shadowy mews, he cut the lights and ignition and slumped, his forehead brushing the steering wheel, unable to forget the expression in Doyle's eyes when he had realised the calculated cruelty of the deception played on him. But not from hatred, sunshine. Never that, Bodie admitted, done with pretence. His emotions battered and jangled, his quota of self-dislike was high. Leaving the car, a huddled shape glimpsed in the doorway made him freeze before he raced across the cobbles and up the steps.

"Ray! Where the hell have you been?" he demanded in a furious whisper, shaking with relief.

"That's rich! It's about time you turned up. I'm bloody frozen," grumbled Doyle, getting stiffly to his feet and extending his hand.

Wordlessly Bodie took it, his warm fingers curling possessively around his partner's colder ones. "I was worried about you," he muttered, limp with relief and too exhausted for the anger which usually follows that emotion.

Doyle gave their joined hands a quizzical look. "I was hoping for my front door key," he remarked mildly, but he made no attempt to free himself until Bodie released him and began to fumble self-consciously through his pockets.

"At last!" Snatching the key from him, Doyle wasted no time, halfway up the stairs by the time Bodie had re-locked the door behind them, blinking in the brilliance as lights were flicked on. He's safe.

"I'm going to have a shower," Doyle announced without pausing in his soggy stalk through the flat. "Make some coffee - put a large slug of scotch in it." The bathroom door closed in Bodie's face as he numbly trailed behind him.

Pausing, one palm flat against the door, Bodie heard the sound of the shower curtain being wrenched back, swiftly followed by the splatter and hiss of water. Coffee, he reminded himself. The kitchen was painfully neat by Doyle's standards, betraying how little it could have been used. Lacing both mugs with a liberal hand, Bodie returned to the bathroom, knocking punctiliously first, that a courtesy he and Doyle had abandoned years ago but which seemed appropriate now.

"Coffee's here," he called to the blur behind the shower curtain. "I've been looking all over for you. Tried a few of your old haunts and drew a blank. It made me realise, I don't know where you'd go any more. Brought it home to me how far apart we are." Bodie's roughened voice was unsteady, the desolation and anxiety he had felt over the last few hours stamped on his face.

"Coffee?" A wet, naked arm appeared around the curtain, the mug vanishing, followed by silence as Doyle took an appreciative gulp. "Christ, that's good. I'll be with you in a minute. If there's any food in the kitchen, start cooking it. Are there any towels handy? I dumped the washing in the launderette this morning but forgot to pick it up."

"What? No, there aren't," mumbled Bodie, distracted by his proximity to the naked man relaxing under the steaming water. "Where are the spares?"

"Who knows? I haven't got round to unpacking yet. There should be a towelling robe on the back of my bedroom door. That'll do."

Moving like an automaton, Bodie went to fetch it, returning in time to see Doyle emerge from the cubicle, droplets of water sliding down the beautiful supple lines of his back. It was then that Bodie saw the faint silvery traces of scarring, barely visible unless you knew what you were looking for. He knew too well.

"Thanks," said Doyle, beginning to dry himself with the robe. "I've had enough of being wet for one night."

His chest, too, was tanned, the soft body hair fluffing out as it was rubbed dry; it had obviously regrown over his pectoral muscles, but beneath that covering Bodie could see traces of more scarring extending down where they would have opened his chest wall. Ray shot because I wasn't there. Because I didn't care enough to stay. A roaring in his ears, sweat prickling his skin, Bodie swung away, wanting to leave before he should disgrace himself.

Puzzled by the silence, Doyle glanced up from drying his left foot in time to see Bodie collide with the door frame, his joking comment dying stillborn when Bodie lurched and continued out of the room, moving like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz.

"Bodie?" Gaining no reply, Doyle dragged on the damp bathrobe, a frown drawing his eyebrows together, and hurried after him. Pausing in the hall, the darkened rooms offered no indication of Bodie's whereabouts. Moving quietly, although he couldn't have said why, Doyle pushed various doors open, light from the hall spilling into the rooms. A shadow, black against the grey, caught his attention and he hovered in the doorway of the sitting room.

His head bowed, Bodie was gripping the metal strip rimming one of the stacked tea chests. After a moment Doyle recognised the soft betraying sounds of disorganised breathing for what they were. Bodie was crying.

Worrying his lower lip, Doyle didn't know what to do. Through all their years together, from the bad to the unspeakable - including the day Bodie had seen Marika executed in front of him - he had never seen the other man cry. It was rare for Bodie to lose control in any way, as if he didn't trust the force of his emotions once they were released. Unable to listen to those solitary sounds of grief without trying to do something, Doyle padded over to where Bodie stood, placing one hand in the centre of those broad shoulders. "'S only me. What's wrong?" he asked as matter-of-factly as he could contrive.

Swinging his head away, Bodie took an unsteady breath, his voice thickened. "Nothing. 'M sorry, I'll go."

"Not on my account, you won't," said Doyle firmly. Slipping a handkerchief from Bodie's jacket pocket, he held it out. "Here, blow your nose and sit down for a minute." Suiting his actions to his words, he eased Bodie's death grip on the tea chest, turned him round and settled him on the makeshift seat, taking the now soggy handkerchief back. "That's more like it. It'll be OK. Whatever it is we'll sort it out, you'll see." Absently he massaged the shoulder he clasped, needing to offer some comfort no matter how small it might be.

Slumped where he sat, the tears refusing to stop, Bodie tried and failed to control his breathing before burying his heated face in his hands.

Doyle could bear it no longer. Tucking himself between the seated man's parted thighs, he wrapped Bodie in a warm embrace, saying nothing, his chin resting on the dark head. They were so close he could feel every dragging inhalation the other man took, aware that the release of tears came hard to Bodie.

"Don't fight it. Let 'em come. Whatever it is, don't do this to yourself." Doyle's own voice was roughened, shaken by the force of Bodie's grief and his inability to help.

His face rising from where it had been buried against Doyle's chest, with a bleak courage Bodie made no attempt to hide his ravaged face. "Me?" he said with hoarse incredulity. "After what I've put you through?"

Caught in Bodie's desperate two-handed grasp, Bodie's face buried against him once more, Doyle made no attempt to reply, one hand cradling the back of the dark head, the other circling Bodie's back. And if Doyle's own eyes were wet as he was caught up in the force of the other man's misery there was no one to see it in the darkness.

The sky outside was streaked with a sullen light by the time Bodie relaxed. Using a portion of the towelling robe Doyle wiped tears and mucus from Bodie's face.

"Milkman will be doing his rounds soon. I don't know about you but I'm knackered. Come and have a sleep. That's the way."

Totally drained, Bodie allowed himself to be led into the bedroom, undressed and tucked under the comfort of a soft duvet whose warmth offered the faint, elusive scent of the man whose bed it was. On the edge of sleep, Bodie forced his eyes open, extending one hand in mute plea.

Staring from the outstretched hand to the red-rimmed eyes, the dark lashes spiky and damp, the matter was never under debate as far as Doyle was concerned. "Of course I am," he said gently, the robe dropping to the floor as he slid in next to Bodie.

One arm encircling Bodie's chest, his groin fitted snugly against the other man's muscular buttocks, his knees tucked into the back of Bodie's in a tried and tested position of comfort. Saying nothing, Doyle's palm continued a slow, rhythmic circling until Bodie slid into an exhausted sleep, leaving Doyle to stare blindly out into the slowly lightening gloom.

oOo

 

The sound of a door slamming brought Bodie to with a start. It was a moment before he could place his surroundings, his stomach giving an unpleasant lurch when he remembered the scene of the previous night. His face felt strange, his eyes and nose very dry, as if he was coming down with a cold. The only sign of Doyle was the indentation in the other pillow.

Dragging on his crumpled clothes Bodie emerged from the bedroom to see Doyle inching down the hall, his arms full of strained-to-capacity carrier bags.

"Did I wake you? Sorry. I tried to save the door and ended up kicking it shut. There's a hell of a wind blowing out there. Bloody British summertime. Grab one of these, will you? Careful! That one's got eggs in it somewhere."

"Probably at the bottom," said Bodie realistically, leading the way into the kitchen. "You should have woken me, I'd've helped."

"No harm done," said Doyle with a fleeting smile before he began to unpack his purchases. "You looked as if you needed the sleep. Still do, come to that." He gave Bodie another glance, as if he dared not do more. "I didn't wake till after ten myself. I tried to ring Inger - to let her know you were OK," he added with haste, obviously not wanting his motives to be misunderstood, "but I must have missed her."

Force of habit having led Bodie to start unpacking, the carton of eggs slid from his hand to land on the work surface with a sticky-sounding thud. "She moved out over a month ago," he announced baldly. "She's had a teaching exchange in Canada fixed up for almost a year and wanted to spend her last few weeks in England with her family. We hadn't been more than flatmates for months, however it might have looked." He watched Doyle's hands pause on the groceries before they returned to what they had been doing. "I should have told you last night. I forgot you couldn't know."

"That's all right, I know now," said Doyle colourlessly.

"No, it isn't," Bodie contradicted, gaining in confidence when he saw that Doyle had deposited the tomatoes in the bin and the plastic container in the vegetable rack. "I've never treated anyone this badly before. You're entitled to the truth. All of it. Only could I make a cup of tea first? I feel hungover."

"No problem. Go and have a shower and shave while I see to it. That'll help. Use my stuff. Clothes, too. Your briefs and socks are clean from when you left them behind. Help yourself to anything else you need."

Bodie frowned. "I left... Oh." Grinding to a halt, he stared at the wide shoulders and narrow hips of the man in front of him, scalded by the memory of how he had come to abandon his clothing.

Half-turning, Doyle shook his head when he recognised Bodie's expression. "Fact, not accusation. It's old history, forget it."

"Can you?" asked Bodie simply.

"Go and have a shower, we'll talk later," replied Doyle, avoiding a direct answer. "The clean washing is still in the car, you'd better collect it first or you won't have a towel to use. Go on. It'll be all right," he promised. While he was wary of his own turbulent emotions he was certain of one thing - he didn't want to see that look in Bodie's eyes again. 

Shaking his head, Bodie hovered in the doorway, atypically at a loss. "Time was when you'd have bounced me around the room, then thrown me out - and you'd have been justified. I'm sorry. For everything."

Knowing exactly how Bodie felt for once, Doyle crossed the room to gather a handful of Bodie's crumpled shirt, tugging gently at it in lieu of the caress he was wary of offering. "I worked that much out for myself. Go and have that shower."

Staring at the grave, beautiful face so close to his own, recognising the warmth in Doyle's voice, Bodie opened his mouth, found nothing adequate to say and closed it again. Leaning forward, he brushed Doyle's forehead with his mouth and left the room.

Taking his time in the bathroom, consciously draining all thoughts from his mind, Bodie concentrated on elements of Shusai's training to calm him. By the time he re-emerged, he felt considerably more human in the tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirt borrowed from Doyle's wardrobe. Going into the sitting room he found Doyle with his backside in the air and his head in one of the packing cases, the floor littered with his possessions. Caught unawares, Bodie gave the denim-clad backside a fond grin, this one of his favourite views of Doyle.

"Need a hand?"

"I wouldn't mind," conceded Doyle, righting himself to deposit another oddly-shaped package on the floor. "Thought I might as well start unpacking while things are quiet. I can't keep dashing to the launderette every time I need a clean towel."

"No," agreed Bodie, sinking onto the floor next to him.

"What's so funny?"

"Eh?"

"You're grinning like an idiot."

"If you're unpacking you're obviously planning to stay," replied Bodie, in the manner of one stating an obvious fact.

"Of course I'm staying," said Doyle, disconcerted. "Well, come on then. If you're going to help, help." His belligerence fooled neither of them.

"I'm helping, I'm helping. Where do you want the stuff put?" asked Bodie, levering another tea chest open and happily scattering the shredded paper he found beneath the lid.

"The floor will do for now," replied Doyle, glancing at the first page of a paperback which had caught his attention.

It was a familiar pattern to the Doyle method of unpacking and Bodie made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. "Somehow I knew you'd say that. It always took days to get your place straight and it was usually me who did it then." He was unwrapping newspaper from articles as he spoke. "Isn't this what I won at the fair on Blackheath?" he exclaimed, holding up a remarkably ugly vase which was encrusted with improbably-coloured roses.

"That's the one," confirmed Doyle, sparing it a glance. "Except it was me who won it. Didn't realise I'd kept it. It's hideous."

"It is rather. But I helped. Decisive shot, mine was," claimed Bodie, setting the vase down with more care than if it had been a piece of Spode.

"Yeah? It wasn't a bad day, was it? D'you remember - ?"

Along with crumpled newspaper and Doyle's belongings, they were soon knee-deep in reminiscences as they discovered various other items which, while devoid of commercial value or intrinsic merit, held a wealth of memories. Their conversation easy and relaxed, no care was needed to recall the times of uncomplicated pleasure. Working as much as they talked, the tea chests were soon cleared, leaving the sitting room floor strewn with those of Doyle's belongings for which they had been unable to find an obvious home.

"See, it didn't take long," said Doyle, flat on his back, a smudge of newsprint on the bridge of his nose.

"Only because most of the stuff is still lying on the floor. You haven't got any shelves for the books," Bodie pointed out.

"I must have." Sitting up in one effortless movement, Doyle wrinkled his nose, having failed to locate any. "You could be right. Maybe it's time I had a good look round," he added, making a prowling exploration of his new domain, studying the small flat as a potential home rather than the temporary accommodation he had regarded it as until now.

"It could do with a few improvements," he conceded on his return. Taking the mug of tea Bodie had made for him with a nod of thanks, he absently munched his way through seven biscuits from the packet Bodie had brought in with it.

"Could easily fit shelves and cupboard units along that wall behind the sofa," said Bodie with authority, watching with disbelief as Doyle beat him to the last biscuit. "There must be a DIY store somewhere around here."

"Should be. You always claimed to be good with your hands."

"I had the feeling I was going to feature in this somewhere. Don't think you're going to con me into doing all the work, but I'll help."

"I know," said Doyle with a grin, tossing the balled-up biscuit packet into the bin with a fluid flick of his wrist.

"What are you going to be doing while I'm slaving away?" enquired Bodie. Sprawled along the floor, his weight was supported by one arm as he sipped the last of his tea.

"Admiring your skill - with a suitable awed expression, of course -tidying away the rest of this stuff and cooking us a meal."

"Of what?"

"Lasagne."

"That'll do. And?"

"What do you want for pudding - realistically?"

"I'd settle for apple pie - and custard."

"I'd forgotten your fetish for custard. OK, it's a deal. Right, let's be off to the DIY then. We'd better stop at the supermarket if you want custard. I'm not making it from scratch. Dunno how." Abruptly aware he was assuming Bodie would want to spend the remainder of the day with him, Doyle paused, rubbing his nose. "If you haven't got anything else planned, that is." Warmth and expression drained from his face as he braced himself for rejection.

"Nothing, and if I had I'd cancel it. I've missed you," Bodie added with simple truth, only now conceding how many times in the preceding months he had turned to speak to the man who hadn't been there. 

"Then it's settled," nodded Doyle, but his smile was automatic and impersonal.

"Ray, don't," said Bodie involuntarily.

"What?"

"Shut yourself in and me out." Doyle's chin came up, his expression stony as he prepared to deny the charge. Bodie continued doggedly, "You've been doing that since the day you first appeared on my doorstep. At first I thought it was for my benefit - to demonstrate I didn't matter. But I've been watching you. You do it to anyone who threatens to get too close, anyone who might make you feel something. And it scared the hell out of me, that's why I kept pushing, trying to get a reaction out of you. You just kept retreating."

"So?" The unblinking stare was unnerving, the bearded face remote.

"Don't do this to yourself. It isn't good for anyone, least of all you. You are what you are, why try and change yourself?"

Because it isn't enough for you. "Bodie the amateur psychologist. You should get together with Kate Ross," snapped Doyle edgily.

"Why?" Bodie repeated, his gaze never leaving the other man.

"Because I'm tired of being hurt, that's why!" snarled Doyle, cornered into offering the truth. "Damn it, Bodie, I've had enough!" A pile of paperbacks skittered across the floor when they got in his way. Crossing the room, Doyle glared out of the window, his shoulders hunched.

"I can understand that, but I'm living proof that walking away from a problem doesn't solve a thing," Bodie offered quietly, making no attempt to approach him; not yet. "I know I'm a fine one to talk, I've fucked things up royally. But I'm learning."

"Oh, good," said Doyle sardonically. "What?" The question was almost dragged from him.

"That it's no crime to need someone. It still scares me but not so much. I never imagined I could miss anyone as much as I missed you."

"Me!"

The astonishment in Doyle's voice caused Bodie to give a wry smile. "Who else? You're the only one - for me. Dunno why, but - "

"You left because you were scared?" Beneath the surprise was a flare of anger, the more noticeable because it was suppressed so quickly.

"All the time. And angry. And sometimes bitter because I knew I was failing and I've never been able to accept failure. It wasn't the giving but learning that it's a two-way street. It's hard to take. Sometimes, when things weren't right between us, I'd feel smothered and I'd try and back off - and you were still there. But you weren't the real cause," Bodie added, slowing when he realised Doyle wasn't going to interrupt him, and more importantly, that he was listening. "I was sick of the job. Woke up one morning and knew I couldn't do it again. I didn't trust Cowley, I didn't trust you - even worse, I couldn't trust myself. And without the job I didn't know who I was, what I was. Instead of getting help I ran away from it and blamed it all on you." Bodie's knuckles were white where he gripped his mug but he found the courage from to go on, this one of the most difficult conversations of his life. He felt naked and without a defence.

"I thought I knew it all, that I could handle anything. Not only couldn't I handle the demands of the job, but I couldn't accept how much you meant to me. You still do. I think I've learnt a lot in the last year, more since we've been reunited. I think I'd get it right this time. I know I'd do my best."

Propped against the window sill, Doyle was staring at his feet as if they were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. "The job got to both of us," he said finally, not looking up. "For the rest... I knew you felt hemmed in. The more I'd try to give you the space you needed, the more I crowded you. Dunno why I was so surprised when you left when all's said and done. But I've never been very good at seeing what's in front of me. I told myself it would work out. God knows how when we never talked about anything more significant than which pub we'd honour with our custom. I tried once or twice but... I put my pride first."

"This time you won't need to."

"Let it go, Bodie."

Bodie had never heard Doyle sound so tired. "Not a chance, sunshine. So the first time round we spent too much time guarding ourselves. If it's a fault, it's a common one. What you're trying to do is no healthier. You're trying to switch off, skimming the surface. It's not you and you're tearing yourself apart trying to pretend it is."

"It's history."

"Is it? When I left I... ran. I wanted to get as far away from you and Cowley and the stinking awful life we'd been living as I could. Heard there was a recruitment drive on and went to Amsterdam. It was then that I realised my mercenary days were over. Shook the hell out of me. So I let myself drift with the tide. Never did get round to deciding what I'd do with my life because nothing seemed real any more. Felt a stranger in a strange world as a civilian - no practice at it, you see. You knew I'd gone to Holland?"

Moving away from the window, rubbing his forearms as if he was cold, Doyle pulled on a white knitted jacket. "I traced you to the Amsterdam Hilton before I lost you. But there were too many trouble spots and I couldn't get a lead on where to start looking."

"You traced me that far?" While the distance wasn't great, his trail had been far from clear. Afraid Cowley might decide his abrupt resignation was a cause for concern, Bodie had taken steps to ensure that.

"Why not? Duty-free booze and pictures of windmills." Obviously thinking the better of his attempted bluff, Doyle looked up. "Sorry, just me sounding-off. Yes, I tried to find you in what little time Cowley left free. There wasn't much. Things got a bit frenetic. I chased round those of your mates I'd met or you'd mentioned. Then I tried your contacts. Followed the rumours to Holland. It was easy once I remembered that alias you always used. Sloppy that," he added gently, able to smile about it now, the memories of those days easy to bear with Bodie standing opposite him. "Who else but you would stay at the Amsterdam Hilton while they were on the run?"

Frowning, Bodie was pursuing a very different train of thought. "None of my old mob knew I'd left CI5; none of my contacts would give away the time of day without a hefty favour or a lump sum in cash." His expression accusing, he stalked closer. "That's where all your money went, isn't it? You spent it on scum like Martell! Christ, Ray." He knew he was talking too much but couldn't seem to stop. "Wait here."

Heading for Doyle's bedroom, Bodie rummaged in his jacket for his cheque book before scribbling furiously. A sound in the doorway made him look up to find Doyle watching him.

"I forgot," Bodie explained. "I discovered it was you who looked after my stuff - and paid the bills. I owe you for that. Never thought to thank you either. It meant a lot to get some of my things back. Not the stereo and stuff but photos, those obscene doodles of yours. It's the first time I've had things like that - with happy memories, I mean." A little unnerved by his runaway tongue, he held out the cheque he had written. "Thanks."

Staring at the slip of paper with dawning disbelief, Doyle made a sound deep in his throat. "You try givin' me that and I'll stuff it somewhere you can't ignore. What the fuck d'you think I am - Orphan Annie? That I can't function when you're not around? Well, for your information I'm more than capable of looking after myself. I'll live my life how I choose. How I spend my money is none of your fucking business!" Snatching up the cheque, he tore it through and through, the pieces falling unnoticed to the floor between them. "Clear?"

"Crystal." Bodie knew his smile was unlikely to have a calming effect on his enraged companion but he couldn't subdue it in his relief at this confirmation that the warmth and passion which were so much a part of Doyle were no more than hibernating.

"Oh, forget it!" Swinging away, Doyle rubbed angrily at a minor irritation on his chest. He was a little surprised to find Bodie standing in front of him, pushing his hand away to unfasten his shirt.

"What the - ?" It wasn't so much that Doyle objected to the contact, but intending to learn from past mistakes, he needed to know exactly what it was Bodie wanted before he allowed himself to react.

"You've hurt yourself. Damn it, Ray. You should take - "

"Don't be stupid," snapped Doyle, pushing Bodie's hand away. "I was having a scratch. You don't mind, I hope?" Realising he had lost Bodie's attention, he followed the direction of Bodie's gaze to peer at his gaping shirt front. "Oh." Flicking a dismissive finger at his chest, Doyle began to refasten his clothing. "It's not very pretty, I know. Sorry, I should have warned you."

"Warned me! Christ, don't you understand anything?" His voice cracking, Bodie sought Doyle's just-parted mouth with his own. He felt rather than heard Doyle's exclamation of surprise, taking it into himself. Then Doyle stopped fighting the kiss, his response such that Bodie didn't notice anything else for some time. With some people a kiss was a soggy duel at best; others turned it into an art form, he thought hazily, shivering as Doyle's tongue stroked his own, gentling their ungentle urgency.

"Nobody does it better," Bodie murmured, licking at the corner of Doyle's mouth, more accustomed to the sensation of the silky beard now.

"Yeah? Well, I'm a little rusty at the moment. Come 'ere, I need the practice," mumbled Doyle, their bodies plastered together.

"I've never kissed anyone with a beard before," announced Bodie after another lengthy pause, during which he had stroked Doyle's cream shirt open and nuzzled the warm flesh it housed. Distantly aware of hands busy at his own clothing, Bodie co-operated where it did not distract him from his task of baring Doyle to his touch.

"Yes you 'ave, remember Maud?" Doyle's voice was a little slurred, his hips thrusting involuntarily, his tumescence poking Bodie's belly before they staggered to the bed.

"Who's Maud? You taste wonderful," groaned Bodie, his nose buried in Doyle's navel by this time. Their entwined bodies a tangle of half-removed clothing, they were unwilling to part for long enough to strip completely. The rub and glide and thrust of familiar flesh against naked skin was like coming home.

Giving a soft groan as silky body hair brushed nipples sensitised by a wickedly knowing mouth, Bodie crooked one leg around Doyle, undulating strongly as the snub lance of Doyle's cock thrust against him. Smiling into dazed-looking green eyes Bodie's saliva-slick finger sank into Doyle's body, turning and rubbing.

Breaking the kiss, Doyle's mouth opened in a soundless cry as pressure changed to pleasure and pleasure peaked. He came with all the fervour and finesse of a teenage boy, the sight and sound finishing Bodie, his warmth mingling with Doyle's.

"Bloody 'ell," whispered Bodie when he had got his breath back.

"Sorry," mumbled Doyle, only now finding the energy to move. Looking very, very pleased with himself, he sounded anything but.

"You don't look it," noted Bodie indulgently. Kneeling above Doyle's supine figure, his fingers traced abstract patterns in the sticky whorls of hair arrowing down the flat belly. 

"'M not surprised," conceded Doyle with a self-satisfied grin. Rolling over, one hand cupping the side of Bodie's head, he kissed him with a leisurely thoroughness before flopping onto his back again. "Was beginning to wonder what was up with me - or rather what wasn't. It's been a while. What's your excuse?" His smile licked headily around Bodie.

"Listening to you. I half thought you were going to take off into orbit." Bodie's hand stilled in its absent stroking as the sense of what Doyle had said sunk in. "You mean you haven't been getting your end - ? That is..." He came to a stammering halt.

Abruptly sober, Doyle's gaze was fixed on the ceiling in denial of any possible embarrassment. "That's right." His tone was far from encouraging.

"Oh, Ray..."

"Pity I can do without, thank you very much," snapped Doyle, sitting up so fast he dislodged Bodie. "Look on it as your good deed for the week."

His hands resting lightly at Doyle's neck, fingers caressing the nape, Bodie's eyes were warm and dark, his face unshuttered. "How long?"

Much to his surprise, Doyle told him.

"... I put it down to the drugs the hospital had me on at first. After a few unhappy dates, watching some poor girl swallow hard or try not to stare when I took my shirt off, I gave up on the idea. It was bad enough having them look at me as if I was something out of Nightmare on Elm Street, but when I couldn't even... So I stopped trying."

Knowing enough of Doyle to realise how much was missing from that bald recital, Bodie wrapped himself around the stubbornly aloof figure, fiercely protective of him. After a moment he felt Doyle's arms band him in a warmth which did not depend solely upon their physical points of contact.

"Bitches," Bodie growled, restraining himself. He felt rather than saw Doyle smile.

"No, they weren't. I wasn't at my best, physically or mentally. Not many people can handle a total wreck, least of all on a one-night stand. And I can't deny I looked frightening enough for a few weeks."

"You don't now," said Bodie, sitting back on his heels to study his companion with unhurried pleasure. Placing his palm over Doyle's heart, the heel of his hand pressed to Doyle's warmth, Bodie's fingertips rubbed the silky hair growing over the pectoral muscle.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does!" Suddenly fierce, Bodie swooped over him, his eyes seeming very blue. "It matters when you get hurt. It matters when you try and close yourself off. Stop it!"

"Get you," retorted Doyle, trying to lighten the atmosphere. But his expression was sombre when he added, "I'm not sure if I can. I've lost my nerve for taking chances. I've learnt that much about myself. Man of straw, that's me."

"No, just a man." Bodie wanted to say more, the urge to stake his claim almost overwhelming. Knowing it was too soon, he found the patience from somewhere to restrain himself. Watching Doyle swallow a yawn, he added, "And a knackered man at that. Let's have a kip, eh?"

"It's a sign of old age when you fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon." Doyle was snuggling under the duvet as he made the comment.

"I won't tell anyone if you don't," Bodie promised.

 

It was pouring with rain, the room shadowed when Doyle stirred. Peering at the half-dressed man at the foot of the bed he was abruptly awake. "Are you leaving?" Propping himself up on his elbows, the sheet fell away to his waist. Spiky-haired and sticky-eyed with sleep, his mouth looked a little swollen from their love-making. Bodie could have eaten him.

"Only if you want me to," he said, the sweatshirt drooping in his hand. "I was going to a take-away for some food."

"Terrific, I'm starving. There's one that delivers - number's on the pad by the phone. Save you getting dressed." Running his hands through his hair, Doyle caused it to stand on end even more.

"Good thinking. What d'you want me to order?" asked Bodie, already heeling off his shoes.

"I don't care so long as there's plenty of it. I'm going to have a shower."

"D'you want any help?"

Halfway to the door, Doyle turned. "No, but I'll keep a space for you anyway."

Bodie wasted little time on the telephone call.


	11. Chapter 11

ELEVEN

 

Sunday morning they woke early, ate prodigiously and ambled out to collect the newspapers, having acquired the habit of keeping abreast of the news since their return to CI5.

"We should be working," remarked Doyle, looking up from the sports pages of 'The Sunday Times,' a smudge of newsprint below his broken cheekbone.

"We are. D'you want to see 'The News of the World'?"

"Anything juicy in it?"

"George Michael's supposed sex-life, a kinky vicar and a tattooed lady."

Doyle betrayed his first sign of interest. "All over?"

"That's what it says."

"Any pictures?" 

"None worth looking at. D'you feel up to a run?"

"Sure. Why shouldn't I?" 

Bodie shrugged.

Suspecting what might lie behind that evasiveness and determined to put a stop to it, Doyle waited.

"I thought you might not be in the mood," prevaricated Bodie, his eyes doing everything but meet Doyle's gaze.

"Did you now? You wouldn't like to fetch me a bathchair while you're at it, would you? Next time you have some computer time call up my medical file. I'm not going to have an aneurism while we're jogging round the park."

Bodie flashed him a guilty look. "I tried. Couldn't get access to it."

"I should have bloody guessed," sighed Doyle, laughing despite himself. "Well, it's not hiding any deep, dark secrets, so don't go imagining things."

"No," agreed Bodie with a lack of conviction. Sitting on the arm of the chair he had just vacated, he continued to watch his companion.

"All right," said Doyle with resignation, "what is it?"

"How can you be so fit?" Bodie blurted out. "Murphy said you'd died on the operating table."

"Stop over-dramatising. So do about sixty per cent of all major surgery cases. Nothing hit my heart. If it had I wouldn't be sitting here talking about it."

"But your lung - "

" - collapsed. It came up within four days. If it hadn't been for that sodding infection I caught I'd've been up and out of hospital in just under three weeks. Cost me an extra nine days, that did."

Unconvinced, his usual good sense having deserted him because this was Doyle they were talking about, Bodie tried to find a tactful way to frame his next question. He failed. "How come I haven't seen you popping any pills?"

"Cowley doesn't like his staff to do drugs."

"I didn't mean that kind. And you know it," added Bodie with more spirit.

"Then what kind do you mean?"

"I dunno, digitalis, or something."

"For what? I got shot, that's a surgical problem, not a medical one. There's nothing wrong with my sodding heart." It was obvious Doyle's irritation was reaching a critical level. "The only thing I can't do is pass the combat physical. Come on. When I've run your legs off maybe you'll believe me."

"I should've been there," muttered Bodie unheeding, a fierce look in his eyes.

"Why?" asked Doyle, but his expression had softened. "I'd still 'ave been shot. I was so knackered I forgot to take the usual precautions. I was lucky, I got off lightly. Now, are we going to run or not? You can see the wolves, the elephants and - "

"You what?"

"The entrance to the zoo is a five-minute jog away. I've got quite friendly with one of the wolves."

"You would. OK, I've got some trainers in the boot of the car. Can you lend me some socks and a jockstrap?"

""That'll look fetching, but won't you feel a bit exposed?" 

"I was taking the tracksuit for granted. It's the only thing I am taking for granted this time round," Bodie added before going down to the car.

With no desire to resume their discussion, Doyle found Bodie the items he needed before changing himself.

Glancing up from lacing his trainers in time to see Doyle look away, Bodie managed not to ask the question hovering on the tip of his tongue.

"You wondering about my medical file," began Doyle abruptly. "That isn't why ...?" The remainder of the question was inaudible as he bent to fiddle unnecessarily with his laces.

Comprehension dawning, Bodie gave a spreading grin. "You're never worried that I decided to sacrifice my all to enrich the last hours of a dying hero? Raymond, you've been watching too much TV. Prat. Can I move in with you?" The request came of its own volition but Bodie did not wish it unsaid, only that Doyle would look at him.

Eventually Doyle did so but his expression was distant. "It isn't that I...I need time," he said awkwardly.

"It's OK," Bodie reassured him, trying to speak naturally. "It's too soon, I understand that but...can I visit?"

While a diffident Bodie was a novelty, it was one Doyle did not enjoy hearing. "You stupid bugger," he said roughly. "What d'you think you're playing at? Go on, out that door. I reckon you need some fresh air to clear your head, trying to pull that quivering lip routine with me."

This more the Ray Doyle he knew and loved, Bodie grinned. "Just testing." But he was only half-joking and they both knew it.

Locking the front door, Doyle paused on the top step, his expression serious. "I'm not mucking you around for the sake of it."

"I know that, too. Where are the elephants?"

It took Doyle a moment to pick up on the reference. "Follow me."

Watching the grey-tracksuited figure jog down the steps with the supple ease Bodie remembered so well, it was a pleasure to do as Doyle commanded.

 

Flopping onto an empty park bench, Bodie glanced around. "It's nice this, once you get used to watching out for dog turds. Picking up a discarded newspaper, preparing to toss it in the waste bin next to the seat, he glanced at the uppermost page and froze. 

"Fuckin' 'ell! Ray, look at this. We should have kept reading the Sundays."

Doyle glanced at the headlines adorning the third page of 'The Sunday Mirror' and groaned. "Not again. Hasn't our mole heard of the day of rest?"

"Obviously not. Come on." But Bodie spoke to an empty space, Doyle already ten yards down the path.

 

"That was Cowley," announced Doyle, his expression wry as he replaced the telephone receiver. "He isn't very happy."

"Do tell," growled Bodie. "I can't say I'm ecstatic about what's going on myself. These leaks to the press are making us the laughing stock of the Intelligence Services and we're still none the wiser about who's behind this."

"Today's could be worse," said Doyle, pushing three folders onto the already littered floor so he could stretch out on the sofa. "It could be one of the Embassies tapping into us - and on something more sensitive than the amount CI5 spends per annum on housing. Mind you, it's a tidy sum. No wonder Cowley moans about expenses."

"I shouldn't sympathise to Cowley or you could find yourself being asked to pay a realistic rent for this place. How can we be sure half the press aren't privy to the addresses of everyone in CI5?"

"We can't. That's why Cowley changed the safe houses last night when he saw the early editions of the Sundays. Those on the A Squad are already on the move, the rest of us are instructed to sit tight and be on our guard," said Doyle in the manner of one quoting.

"I love it. And the newspaper staff?"

"Cowley says he's satisfied on that point. I can't see anyone in Fleet Street having the balls to hold out on him, can you?"

"That's a very sexist remark," said Bodie, earning himself a two-fingered salute. "About our only consolation is the fact Cowley must have buggered up a few other people's Sundays as well as ours. Still, I suppose he could have called us in last night."

"He tried to but we were out, remember?" said Doyle tonelessly.

"Oh." Needing to cover his surge of emotion, Bodie scowled at the various folders littering the floor. "Nearly three months we've been after this bugger and we're no closer to finding him than when we started."

"Maybe now Cowley will give us more time to concentrate on the investigation. We'll get him."

Unaccustomed to a philosophical Ray Doyle, Bodie's eyebrows rose. "You reckon?"

"I know so. That report in 'The Mirror' convinces me it's an amateur who's selling whatever snippets they can glean to a middle man. By the lack of detail in the article I don't think they had more than figures to go on. I reckon we can exclude all the field agents - the B Squad, too."

"Unless someone's boxing clever. Who's the middle man?"

"The News Editor got very coy. Didn't even blink when Cowley quoted the Official Secrets Act at him."

"And Cowley took it?" 

"He didn't confide in me," returned Doyle dryly. "But from what I can gather he doesn't have much choice. We live in a democracy."

His illusions long since destroyed, Bodie's eyebrows rose in disbelief.

"Fair comment," acknowledged Doyle, despite the fact Bodie hadn't spoken. "The problem was, the News Editor spoke to the Editor who spoke to the owner, who spoke to a chum in Whitehall. The paper's politics might not be pro-government but the old boy network still works. Cowley was told to lay off and keep his own house in order. That's why he was so unhappy."

"I'm glad it was you who answered the phone," said Bodie with feeling.

"I bet you are. We've been going about this investigation the wrong way," mused Doyle. "Instead of sitting on our bums relying on microchips we should be doing our own sniffing around like in the old days."

"We used to get bloody bored in the process." Bodie reminded him.

"Maybe so, we got results. All we'll have at this rate is sore eyes. It's time to mingle, listen, question - "

" - and pounce," interrupted Bodie, who was not in a serious mood.

Doyle gave him what was supposed to be a quelling look but found himself returning Bodie's grin. "Speaking of pouncing, Cowley said to remind you that you're finally being moved into a CI5 flat. Tuesday."

"I'd forgotten about that," sighed Bodie. "Did he think to say where to?"

"When did he ever let us know minor details like that."

"True," conceded Bodie, his gaze on Doyle where he lay sprawled at his ease. "I wouldn't mind a place like this. I don't want anywhere too big. Too much work. I suppose I'd better push off and start packing while I can." Comfortable and content, he betrayed no signs of stirring.

His expression guarded, Doyle gave a non-committal grunt.

"I seem to have spent most of last year packing one way and another," offered Bodie with seeming inconsequence. "It took me months to get Inger ready for the off. But I owed her that much and more." He persevered in the face of Doyle's lack of reaction. "Meeting up with her kept me sane, not to mention on the straight and narrow."

"I always did like Inger," offered Doyle into the silence which had fallen. "The more since you told me she was off to Canada."

"You always did have more guts than me about coming out with things," said Bodie gruffly. "Was there anyone for you?" he added delicately, aware he was picking his way through a potential minefield.

"Not that I was having sex with," replied Doyle bluntly. "There again, I couldn't get it up so I can't take any credit for the enforced celibacy." It was obviously a subject he didn't care to dwell on.

Bodie could understand that. Two months had been the longest he had suffered and he could still remember them all too vividly. "It's bloody murder, isn't it," he said, wanting Doyle to know he understood.

Doyle's gaze slid past him. "Yeah. How did you meet Inger again?"

"Coming out of Safeways. She looked terrible. She'd been living with a prize shit who'd just walked out, having robbed her blind. He left a mountain of debts and several angry girlfriends behind him. They all came knocking on Inger's door, expecting her to sort it out. She really loved the bloke. Still does, come to that," added Bodie, an understanding and affection in his voice which made Doyle's eyes narrow in a surge of resentment. He managed to swallow his bitter comment. "But she had the guts to pull herself out of it and try and make a new life for herself. Having to keep going for each other - because I wasn't exactly a bundle of laughs - helped to paper over the cracks. She's really something. She even conned me into working for NACRO." Bodie shook his head in wonderment.

"Car maintenance, wasn't it?" said Doyle, successfully hiding his jealousy.

"How did you - ? Oh, my file, I suppose. That's right. Luckily the course only had a couple of weeks to run after I rejoined CI5 so I could see it through. It didn't seem fair to let them down that close to the end," Bodie added defensively.

Doyle's mouth twitched but he made no comment.

"Can I ask you something, something personal?" asked Bodie, encouraged by that sign of a thaw.

"You can certainly ask," agreed Doyle, sitting up under the pretext of finishing his drink.

"It's only about your hair," Bodie assured him. "When will the straightening stuff wear out?"

This the last question he had been expecting, Doyle's jaw sagged.

"It isn't that it doesn't suit you like this," Bodie hastened to add. "I just wondered."

"What straightening stuff are you talking about?" asked Doyle, obviously puzzled.

"Whatever it is you used to get rid of the curls," said Bodie, with the patience of one speaking to an idiot.

"But I've never had curly hair," said Doyle blankly.

"You've never had - ?" Bodie levered himself up in his chair. "Ray, your hair used to be curly. Ever since I've known you it's been curly. Day, night, winter or summer, you've had curly hair."

"Oh, that. Blimey, I'd forgotten all about it. I haven't had it permed for nearly two years." 

Bodie was speechless.

"You must have realised," said Doyle, amused.

"You used to perm your hair?" Bodie's voice was slow to drop back to its usual register.

"That's right. How could you not notice?"

Feeling very defensive, Bodie realised it was too late to stage a recovery. "You're not having me on?" he checked with suspicion.

"Yeah." Doyle waited until his companion's relief was clear. "This is really a wig, I'm bald. Honest to god, Bodie, were you last in line when they were handing out brains? What's so odd about having a perm? Kevin Keegan had one."

"He wasn't my partner," retorted Bodie. "How was I supposed to guess? It was a historic occasion if you passed a hairdresser's, never mind went inside one." He felt as outraged as if a natural law had been reversed.

"I went every eight or nine months. When I'd come out I'd have short, curly hair instead of long hair that was straight at the roots. You'd better not let Cowley realise you're this unobservant. Didn't it ever strike you as odd that sometimes my hair was straighter than others?" 

"I suppose it did," Bodie conceded, having thought about it. "I put it down to you changing the style or something." His interest in matters tonsorial had never extended beyond the point where he kept his own hair clean - and short.

"God help the country while you're looking after it," sighed Doyle, regarding him with poorly disguised affection.

"It never occurred to me it wasn't natural," admitted Bodie, having abandoned any hope of covering his gaffe. "How did you find the time to have a perm?"

"A couple of hours of feeling a prat every eight months or so was less hassle than getting my hair cut every six weeks like you do. It's never been a crime to have hair that's more than two inches long. You want to go careful, you're almost in fashion at the moment," Doyle added mischievously.

Bodie was too preoccupied to notice. "You won't be having it permed again?"

Doyle hardened his heart against the wistfulness of the question. "Only if it gets on my nerves too much straight - getting it cut, I mean."

"What made you decide to stop perming it?"

Tired of the subject, Doyle replied only because he sensed the question held some importance to Bodie. "We were too busy for me to spare the time when I was due for a perm. Then I got shot. By the time I realised the perm had grown out I looked like an aging hippy and was down in Devon with Kate. I tied my hair back with an old bootlace and decided to leave well alone." He didn't add that his finances hadn't allowed for such luxuries.

"Kate?" echoed Bodie, unaware of the possessive note in his voice. "Who's she?"

"A friend from way back. I lived with her until Cowley came recruiting. The near crew cut I had back in June was her fault. You'll like Kate." 

Aware that he was blackly, irrationally jealous of this unknown Kate, Bodie gave a non-committal grunt and got to his feet.

Having missed none of the expressions which had crossed his companion's face, Doyle wondered with near academic interest how long Bodie was going to leave for this time.

"You're right, I am jealous," admitted Bodie in a low tone, crouching beside him. "I know I don't have the right to be, and god knows you needed a friend then, but... It should have been me! At least I wouldn't have made you get your haircut," he added, trying to make a joke of it.

Needing to escape both the tug of the other man's personality and the intimacy of the moment, Doyle left the sofa to retrieve his sweater. He took his time pulling it on. "That's because you don't care what's under the hair," he said finally. "She had this idea in the middle of the night and wanted a skull she could work from. Being Kate, she came and woke me up at half-past three in the morning to give me a haircut. Then, when I'm this close to bein' bald, she tells me my skull's the wrong shape."

Side-tracked despite himself, Bodie blinked. "You mean there's more than one shape?"

"Don't ask me, mate. I'm only the poor mug she conned into having a haircut. Luckily it grows fast," added Doyle, giving a hank a rueful tug. "I must introduce you. She'll have you bollock naked before you can blink."

"Want to bet?"

"Fifty quid," said Doyle promptly. "She's a sculptor. Bodies fascinate her." He cast an unconscious glance at his watch.

The hint difficult to miss, Bodie stirred with reluctance. "I should go. I know it's late but we should be able to find somewhere that's still open. Can I buy you a meal? I'm starving."

This time when he glanced at his watch Doyle saw the dial. "I hadn't realised how long we'd been working. Ten-thirty on a Sunday evening... We'll be lucky to find anything worth eating. If I cook we won't have to change."

"I wasn't planning to, whatever we did," said Bodie but he gave Doyle's torn jeans a fond look.

Running a hand back through his much discussed hair, most of which was standing up on end, Doyle heaved a patient sigh. "Do you want to go out or not?"

"Not. I don't want to cook either but I'll come and watch you. You can tell me more about Kate. I thought you meant Ross for a nasty moment," added Bodie, his lightness of tone unforced now.

"What do you want to know?" Doyle's too straight shoulders betrayed his tension. 

"What makes you prepared to bet fifty pounds on her. Your limit always used to be fifty pee."

"Wasn't it on file?" asked Doyle in surprise, crouching down to collect some of the folders littering the floor.

"Probably. I never saw your file," replied Bodie, pushing the sofa back to retrieve a folder which had slid beneath it. "I won't deny I tried to gain access. It wasn't to be had. I only got your bank records through the back door. Reminds me, I'd better make sure no one else tries it on. But that's why I didn't realise you'd been away from the Squad, of course. You said something earlier about Cowley coming recruiting. Didn't you want to come back?"

"To do what? I'm a field agent, not a desk jockey."

Bodie ran his fingers along the edge of the folder he held. "How did you make a living? CI5 weren't paying you anything."

Doyle shrugged, dropped the files he was holding on the seat of a chair and headed for the kitchen. "Odd jobs. Nothing spectacular. I suppose you could say I lived off Kate for nearly seven months."

"Was the fact you'd be regraded the only reason you didn't want to come back?" asked Bodie, trying and failing to imagine Doyle wasting more than six months of his life on odd jobs.

Doyle's search for food halted as he opened the freezer, his face hidden from view. "No. While I don't know what I am going to do with my life, I know what I was turning into during my last few months here. I hadn't gone as far down the road as Mad Tommy but it's as close as I ever intend to get."

"Cobblers," said Bodie roughly.

"There were times when I enjoyed the job too much."

"Not you," contradicted Bodie with confidence.

"How would you know, you weren't there!"

The pain-filled accusation hung between them, giving Bodie another lightning flash into the turmoil beneath Doyle's surface calm. "No," he agreed, wary of saying more in case he was thrown out on his ear.

"What did you want to know about Kate?" asked Doyle prosaically as he scrubbed two large potatoes.

Aware that Doyle, prickly as a hedgehog, was poised to retreat, Bodie gave a self-deprecating shrug. "You know me. Everything. Damn it, Ray, you know I always cross-examined you if we spent a weekend apart. I can't help being nosy."

"But you aren't."

"Quick, very quick. Didn't you ever wonder why I should make an exception of you?" asked Bodie with resignation.

"No," admitted Doyle blankly. "Because it was you I never minded. Took it for granted, I suppose. Give me that knife," he added gruffly. "You'll chop your bloody thumb off if you carry on like that. Grate some cheese. Will pizza, salad and jacket potatoes do you?"

"Fine. How do you work this thing?" Bodie peered at the microwave.

Doyle pointed to the instruction book and resumed his high-speed chopping.

Their meal was a leisurely affair, Doyle relaxing enough to volunteer a little information about his life over the last few months, glossing flippantly over incidents which had seemed far from funny a short time ago. He did his best to bring Kate Holden alive for his partner, whilst wondering how they would get on.

"Cowley fancied her!" exclaimed Bodie, in danger of choking on a mouthful of peach. His tongue flicked down his chin in an effort to rescue escaping juice.

"I wouldn't go that far," amended Doyle, distracted by Bodie's action, "but from what I could gather..."

"How old is this Kate?"

"I'm not sure," said Doyle delicately eating a grape, the rest of the cluster held loosely between his fingers. "Let's see, I was nineteen and she must have been about thirty, thirty-one when I met her. That makes her..." there was a grape-filled pause "...forty-nine. She's wearing well. And what's that look for?" he added with asperity as Bodie grinned.

"She's never that bird you told me about?"

"Which one?" There was some justification for Doyle's query.

"You once told me you'd lived off an older woman who could be very demanding. I seem to remember we were on a bus at the time. God knows why."

"Kate was and is, but not in the way you think, you lecherous sod. She's... single-minded, I suppose. Like waking me up in the middle of the night to give me a short back and sides."

"She must be missing you after the months you spent with her," said Bodie, his expression schooled.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said." The eyes boring into him seemed to be the same green as the grapes Doyle had been eating. Remaining silent, Doyle helped himself to a plum from the bowl of fruit which sat between them. "You never had the knack of staying on good terms with your women. You and Kate have been friends a long time. She must mean a lot to you," Bodie added awkwardly, not certain what he was getting at himself, or at least what answer he was hoping for.

"She does. We've been friends for eighteen years. Good enough friends to go three or four years without needing to see each other. We've had the odd friendly fuck, but that's never been what's kept us together. I dunno why we get on so well to be honest, we haven't got much in common. She's another lady who hasn't had it easy - not money troubles, men. But I've never heard her whine. Don't know how she put up with me all those months. I can't have been very sparkling company. Don't remember that much about my time in Devon except that she didn't ask a single question. 'S very restful, that." His eyes narrowed to slits, Doyle bit into the juicy purple-skinned flesh of the plum he had been holding.

"You were probably easier to bear than you think," said Bodie unguardedly.

Giving him a look it was difficult to decipher, Doyle smiled and shook his head. "I must pop down to pick up the rest of my stuff some time. Come with me. Kate never minds an extra guest. It's getting late," he added.

"I'll do the washing up before I go," offered Bodie, toying with his peach stone. Solitude had never seemed so unappealing, or so inevitable.

Doyle shook his head and Bodie's spirits rose. They plummeted when Doyle said, "I can see to these. You'll need all your time for packing. I'll call round for you at eight tomorrow. We need to decide what direction our investigation should take next."

"Fine," said Bodie flatly, watching Doyle help himself to another small cluster of grapes.

Doyle shot him a sharp glance. "Or we could both see to the packing tomorrow after work if you want to stay the night."

"I'll get on with the washing up," said Bodie, escaping to the kitchen where he felt free to grin at nothing in particular. Much to his surprise he didn't break anything and while he cut his finger on one of Doyle's knives, the small mishap didn't quench his optimism.

 

Coming together gratefully in the storm-tossed bed, unmade from the previous night, there was a diffidence in Doyle's manner which caught at Bodie's heart.

"Don't look like that, sunshine. I'll go if you want," he said quietly, very afraid that if he snatched or said a wrong word they would never have another chance to put things right.

Shaking his head, Doyle gave a faint, wry smile, his eyes on Bodie's mouth. "I've lost the habit," he said inconsequentially, one hand on Bodie's shoulder as he knelt above him.

"Whatever you fancy, whenever you fancy it," said Bodie, trying to screen his over-optimistic prick from view.

"Yeah?" Doyle's mouth found Bodie's, tentatively at first, hovering a breath away before touching Bodie's and beginning to work its old magic, his lips warm and firm and dry, asking, "Is this what you like? And this?" his tongue a velvety seducer.

Opening to him, Bodie held nothing back, not even conscious of the fact that he was allowing Doyle to set the pace. That was no longer important. What was important was the glorious reality of Ray Doyle in his arms, his eyes slitted with hedonistic delight as they relearnt the old ways of pleasure. Their loving began slowly, gaining pace and power with the inexorability and exhilaration of a roller coaster. When they were finally still, slumped in a sticky, breathless tangle, a soft chuckle made Bodie open his eyes.

"What's that for?" His mouth in Doyle's hair, he gently nosed a strand.

"Dunno. Relief, probably. Wasn't sure if I'd be up to it," said Doyle, tensing when he realised what he had admitted.

Unseen, Bodie's expression softened. A night or two of brewer's droop could be traumatic enough. A year was enough to send anyone to the funny farm. "Oh, you're up to it. Made for love, you are. Natural talent is one thing, you have genius. Besides, it's like riding a bike, you never lose the knack."

Suffering none of the post-coital depression which sometimes afflicted him, there was a sparkle in Doyle's tired eyes as he rolled clear to lie next to Bodie. "Rather ride you any day of the week."

"I'm delighted to hear it." As touch-starved as his mate, Bodie's hands continued to drift over the relaxed sprawl of Doyle's body. "No one does it better for me than you. No one."

"We always did make a good team," muttered Doyle gruffly, feeling self-conscious about his body's quick response to the seductive voice in his ear and the clever fingers working their old magic.

"Hello, bits of you seem to be waking up," noticed Bodie, amusement and gratification both apparent in his face. "Now there's a beautiful sight. No, lie still. Let me love you, eh." Nuzzling Doyle's testicles, licking, sucking and inhaling the scent of the man, he was almost purring with contentment by the time his tongue swirled round the head of Doyle's cock.

"Nice? Yeah, thought you might like that," he murmured, applying himself with dedication to the task of making Doyle lose his mind. Tongue tip delving into the weeping eye of Doyle's cock, he massaged the taut-drawn testicles in rhythm when finally he took Doyle into his mouth, Doyle's whimper when he came the sweetest sound Bodie had heard for a very long time.

"Like shooting to the moon," gasped Doyle incoherently, his hand tucked in Bodie's armpit, Bodie's cheek resting on his belly.

"I think I'm insulted," mused Bodie drowsily. "My face has been compared to many things but never the moon."

"Was in the general direction of heaven," defended Doyle. "Don't fall asleep yet. You'll be more comfortable up 'ere."

"You will, you mean," said Bodie, labouriously crawling up to the pillows and Doyle, who kissed him with unhurried luxury.

"Don't go wasting yourself on the sheets next time. Not while I'm here."

"Next stop Venus," mumbled Bodie. One arm banding Doyle's chest, his face buried in the pillow, he was asleep before Doyle had time to groan.

 

His sleep sounder than it had been for months, the sun streaming through a small gap in the curtains and into his eyes woke Doyle just after six. Stirring, he became conscious of Bodie's early morning erection snug between his buttocks and gave a sleepy grin.

"Mornin'. You're up early. Don't mind me, mate. Whatever you want."

His accompanying wriggle caused Bodie to give a deep growl, his hand already snaking round to find Doyle. "Oh yeah, just... Oh christ, yesss," Bodie hissed, gliding along Doyle's sleep-slick buttocks, lethargy falling away as Doyle responded and they fell into an age-old rhythm, Bodie surrendering to erotic fantasies which were only marginally better than fucking the cleft of Doyle's arse.

Eventually Doyle turned his head to find Bodie watching him. "Can feel you tricklin' over my balls. 'S a lovely way to wake up, beats jogging any day of the week."

Licking his Doyle-sticky fingers, Bodie could only agree with him, smiling as he drifted back to sleep. Fighting the urge to join him, Doyle eased himself out of bed, reluctantly rinsed Bodie from his body and went for a run. On his return he found Bodie mid-way through burning breakfast, obviously still only half-awake.

"You look horrible," Doyle offered, propping himself in the doorway, as rested as if he had enjoyed eight hours' uninterrupted sleep, the glow of exercise on his skin, his eyes sparkling.

Bodie viewed the sight unenthusiastically. "Thanks a bundle. Was worth it though," he added, as Doyle helped himself to orange juice from the refrigerator, the damp tracksuit clinging to his small, firm arse. "This'll be ready in five minutes."

"I'll be there," promised Doyle, heading for the shower. Bouncing back just within that limit, his electric razor buzzing, he was whistling. "It's going to be a beautiful day."

Bodie paused in dishing up. "Great."

"And I'm starving."

"Good."

"You're perky. Taken it out of you this morning, have I?" asked Doyle, an endearing smugness to him as he set upon his eggs and bacon.

"Any time you like, sunshine. No, it takes the duty officer to put the mockers on the day. He rang while you were in the shower. We've got a briefing with Cowley at nine and the rest of the day in Whitehall with Bangold."

"Which one's he?" Remembering, Doyle gave an eloquent groan. "Not Plum's first cousin?"

"That's him. Probably a clone. Last time we got lumbered with him it was on the role of ethnic minorities in the Intelligence Services and CI5 in particular. God knows what they've dreamt up this time."

"Were you at that meeting?" asked Doyle, fork poised as he looked up in surprise.

"Asleep in the corner. Eat up. If Cowley wants us by nine we'll need to get a move on. No time to wash up," Bodie added without sorrow as he headed for the door. "Mind you, I've got some fond memories of that meeting."

"It's more than I have," said Doyle, snatching up a piece of toast as he sped down the stairs behind Bodie. "Why?" 

Bodie grinned at him over the roof of the car. "You obviously didn't catch Bangold's expression when you strolled in that day. I shouldn't think there was a bloke in the room wearing a suit costing under three hundred quid and you came in wearing jeans you should have thrown out five years ago and trainers. Those blokes wrote you off and you wiped the floor with them."

"Can only play that trick once though," pointed out Doyle realistically. "Hang on, that was about increasing our armaments budget. I'd forgotten the ethnic point."

"So had everyone else by the time you'd put the cat amongst the pigeons. You were magic," remembered Bodie, driving down Albany Street twenty mph above the speed limit in pace with the rest of the traffic and slowing to a crawl as they reached the bottleneck by the White House Hotel. "They were so busy scoring points off each other they never noticed the size of the increase they authorised. I think you must be Cowley's secret weapon - for your irritant value as much as your more obvious talents."

"Cheers. You could have a point though. The only time he mentioned me wearing a suit was when he packed me off to Helsinki. I had to buy two new ones for that - and he wouldn't let me claim for them on expenses."

"Life's hell," sympathised Bodie, suddenly conscious that all was right with his world because Doyle felt cheerful enough to complain about his expenses. "Are you telling me you didn't have a suit," he added in disbelief.

"I've got two now. Couldn't believe what they cost."

"Maybe if you didn't leave it seven years before buying one it wouldn't come as such a shock. You could always shop at Burtons," Bodie added with a grin, knowing Doyle's taste in clothes was at least as expensive as his own, if less formal.

"I leave that to you, mate," returned Doyle, as he automatically scanned the streets, the habit too ingrained to be easily broken. "Cowley's put me down for babysitting the Reardon op. this week - if they didn't wrap it up over the weekend. What's he got planned for you?"

"The Milan connection," remembered Bodie without enthusiasm, having contrived to forget about it until now.

"Oh, bad luck, mate," said Doyle, a wide, happy smile spreading across his face. "I bet you're well pleased, all those lovely stakeouts. How many houses are being watched?"

"Too many. Stop gloating or I'll call in sick. I've got twelve of the kindergarten to keep awake. It'll be a miracle if at least one of them doesn't screw up. You're right, with the amount of work he's given us it does make you wonder how seriously he's taking the business with the mole. Leaving aside his early pep-talk you can't say he's been pressuring us for results, can you," Bodie added, swinging the car into the back entrance of CI5 at two minutes before nine.

About to reply, a familiar bellow made Doyle pause before getting out of the car. "You had to go and say it, didn't you," he sighed. 

"I'll see the pair of you in my office. You're late. Doyle, you look a disgrace," Cowley added with a hard stare at jeans which had seen better days and a canary yellow teeshirt which successfully rivalled the sun.

In the ensuing ten minutes Cowley managed to dispel any impression he might have given about not being concerned about their lack of progress in the investigation. His parting shot of, "You're not being paid to enjoy yourselves," followed them out into the corridor, where they narrowly missed falling over Catchpole.

"Cowley's free now, if that's who you're waiting for," offered Doyle, looking up the necessary six inches.

Giving an unenthusiastic nod, Catchpole made no attempt to move.

"What's up?" asked Bodie, with what the uninitiated might have taken for concern.

"Er - nothing. He's not in a very good mood, I take it."

"I wouldn't say that, would you?" Turning to Bodie, Doyle's expression was one of engaging solemnity.

"Almost approving, I'd say. But then I'm often wrong. Are you going in or just acting as a fire door?" Bodie enquired.

"In, I suppose. Can you spare a moment, I'd appreciate some advice," said Catchpole, sharing his earnest stare between the two men.

"You've come to the right place. There's nothing we don't know about Cowley, is there, Ray?"

"Nothing important, anyway. Did he send for you?"

"Er - not exactly," said Catchpole, looking worried.

Doyle frowned. "You'd best be careful then. Your career could hang on what happens this morning."

"In what way?"

"Well, it depends, you see," said Bodie.

"On what?"

"On how late in the day you see him. He's never at his best early on, although he mellows after his first couple of drinks, wouldn't you say, Ray?"

"I'd say three or four myself, but then I'm the cautious type."

"You mean Cowley drinks?"

Bodie looked shocked. "Certainly not. Cowley's got very strong views about work and malt whisky. You must have noticed by now?"

A pint a night man, if pushed, Catchpole gave a reluctant nod, remembering the tumbler of scotch which had been thrust at him at eight-thirty one morning. "I didn't realise it was a serious problem. No one talks about it." 

"They wouldn't, would they," Bodie pointed out.

"Anyway, it's not what I'd call a serious problem," interjected Doyle.

"Yet," Bodie reminded him.

"Why doesn't someone do something?" asked Catchpole.

"That's a good question," nodded Bodie.

"A very good question," agreed Doyle. "And we would, wouldn't we, Bodie? Only we're off the A squad now. Our hands are tied."

"Um, yes, one gathered you were, um..." Catchpole's forehead wrinkled. "You don't mean you were regraded because you tried to do something about it?"

Maintaining a precarious gravity only by dint of biting his inner cheek, Doyle studied the floor, leaving the ball in Bodie's court.

"Not quite," said Bodie. "Best we don't discuss it here. Walls have ears, you know."

When Catchpole nodded wisely Doyle almost disgraced himself. "You never did get round to saying why you wanted to see Cowley," he said in strangled tones.

"I had a spot of bother."

"You haven't gone and killed a suspect Cowley wanted?" said Doyle, aghast.

"Certainly not."

"Member of the public?" asked Bodie casually.

Catchpole blanched and shook his head.

"Then you've got nothing to worry about," Bodie assured him.

"Really? Only Anson seemed to think - "

"Anson can't think, he's congenitally incapable. What happened?" asked Doyle with a trace of resignation, of the view that taking sweets from a baby would be more competition than taking the piss out of Catchpole.

"We pranged the car," said Catchpole unhappily.

"That's nothing to worry about," said Doyle confidently. "Almost an occupational hazard. It's easy enough to requisition a new one." Out of Catchpole's line of vision, Bodie winced. "Cowley's not unreasonable about a little mishap like that, is he, Bodie?"

"He never gave us any trouble," said Bodie, perjuring himself.

"There again, we never pranged a car," said Doyle, rolling the unfamiliar word around his tongue with a betraying relish.

Catchpole drew himself to his full, imposing height. "Anson warned me about you two. I assumed you would be too busy to find adolescent humour amusing. If you'll excuse me." He tapped on Cowley's door, entering the office without a backward glance.

"He'll do," said Bodie as he pushed Doyle down the corridor.

"You reckon?"

"He got there in the end, didn't he?"

"You're getting soft in your old age."

"Maybe. Ten quid says he makes it."

Doyle gave him a look of suspicion. "What do you know that I don't?"

"What makes you think - ?"

"Experience. Come on."

Waving goodbye to an easy ten pounds, Bodie gave a philosophical sigh. "Anson rates him highly enough to be willing to be partnered with him. It'll be official by the end of the week."

"Does he?" said Doyle, unwillingly impressed. "I better give young Catchpole my undivided attention. Have we checked him out yet?"

"Catchpole? No point. You're forgetting, he only came on strength in May."

"Oh, right. Then those few months should have wiped some of his dewy-eyed innocence away," said Doyle severely.

"Why?" asked Bodie, driving away at speed, having realised they were late for their meeting with Bangold. "That description would fit half the squad nowadays. The world's gone mad. Cowley will be recruiting children next. What am I saying, he already does."

"Maybe we're just getting old."

Bodie spared him a glance. "Do you feel old?"

"Not today," said Doyle serenely, his bare forearm propped on the open window, the breeze ruffling his hair. Squinting in the sunlight, he looked little older than Catchpole, infinitely more interesting and inherently desirable. Bodie tried to concentrate on his driving but the traffic jam they were stuck in required too little of his attention.

"How about you?" Doyle asked a few minutes later.

"Me? Peak of physical perfection, same as always."

Doyle's gaze settled on Bodie's corduroy-clad groin. "You could be right. I hope that's for me."

"Well, it isn't likely to be for young Catchpole, is it," retorted Bodie acidly, finding his cords uncomfortably constricting at the moment and uncertain quite what Doyle had meant by the remark.

Wishing he hadn't said anything, Doyle hurriedly sought a change of subject. "It's a pity I blew it with him. We might have conned him into asking Cowley for a drink."

"Ah, but eventually Cowley would have thought to ask who put him up to it," Bodie pointed out, following his lead with relief.

"I hadn't thought of that. On to happier topics, then. What would you say would be the best way of ruining Bangold's day?"

"Acting naturally should do it," said Bodie the realist.

He was quite right.


	12. Chapter 12

TWELVE

Returning to Cowley's office early that evening to make their report, having lost the toss with Doyle for the task, Bodie received the details of his new location with a ludicrous look of dismay.

"Why there?" he blurted out.

"Why not?" returned Cowley, making no attempt to disguise his interest. "The flat is central, comfortable and you certainly won't have to worry about your nearest neighbour."

"I'm not sure I fancy the idea of living on Doyle's doorstep," mumbled Bodie, aware that all the objections would be Doyle's, who would assume he had arranged it in order to pile on the emotional pressure by his proximity.

"Allocations of accommodation are made for CI5's convenience, not yours. It's a damn sight easier to secure a place that small when it's fully occupied by my staff. The public aren't always as cooperative as they might be."

"I can't say I blame 'em," said Bodie, wondering how he could break the news to Doyle. "Is this a change in policy, sir?" he added briskly, aware that the rule had always been to spread staff as widely as possible.

"To a limited degree. Accommodation in large apartment blocks occupied by the public isn't always easy to secure. Here are your keys. No doubt you'll come to an amicable arrangement with Doyle about the garden."

"Garden? You mean I'll have to mow the lawn?" said Bodie with horror.

"Only if you decide to sow one first. Oh, and Bodie... Kindly remember that you are occupying Crown property."

"I'll bow every time I step over the threshold."

While Cowley smiled, his expression was thoughtful as he watched the younger man leave, having expected more enthusiasm from Bodie regarding his new abode.

 

Having spent a convivial evening in the pub with Jax after their game of squash, it was almost midnight when Doyle finally arrived home. Pulling up into his allotted car space, light from the windows beneath his flat drew his attention. Hoping that his new neighbour wouldn't prove to be an avid party thrower, he picked up his sports bag, locked the car and headed for home. A familiar outline glimpsed through the lower window stopped him in his tracks, his expression hardening.

Wasting no time, Doyle let himself into the shared hall and glared at the door to the ground floor flat. It would have been a pleasure to kick it in but it opened as he pushed against it to reveal Bodie a few feet in front of him, his arms full of clothes.

"What the fuck are you doing moving in on me?" demanded Doyle, not for the first time dispensing with the normal civilities. "If this is your idea of subtlety you can take it and - " 

"It was Cowley's idea," replied Bodie woodenly, depositing his belongings on the first available surface. "I didn't have any say in the matter."

"You expect me to believe that?" snapped Doyle, his mind full of nightmarish visions of having to watch an endless stream of visitors walk in and out of Bodie's flat and pretend he didn't care; of knowing Bodie and his current bird - or fella - were down here, together.

"Yes," said Bodie simply, collecting up the bundle he had just set down.

Taken aback when he recognised the defensiveness of the action, Doyle lost a little steam. "It's not like you to be an optimist," he said roughly.

"No."

Calmer now, Doyle became aware of his companion's guarded manner, which was usually reserved for occasions when Bodie received an undeserved dressing-down from Cowley. "What's the Old Man playing at?"

"Not Happy Families, so relax. He claims it's more cost-effective to have two operatives sharing a place like this. I knew you wouldn't like it but I didn't feel equal to telling him why. Don't panic, I won't cramp your style. I know you intend to lead your own life. I didn't have any choice, Ray."

Devoid of laughter, the blue eyes begged to be believed. This not the attitude he expected from Bodie, who assumed poor taste on the part of those who didn't recognise his innate perfection, Doyle was left floundering.

"No," he said at last, "you wouldn't have had. Cowley must be the one bloody constant left in the world. Do you need a hand getting things straight?"

"I've almost finished. Would you like a drink?"

The formality of the offer killed the last vestige of Doyle's anger, making him appreciate what he was doing. "If I did I wouldn't be stupid enough to wait to be asked. I'll dump this stuff," he hoisted his sports bag aloft, "and come back to help you finish."

He reappeared five minutes later, holding an unopened bottle of Glenfiddich. "House-warming pressie," he explained, pouring two generous measures. "Is the layout of this place the same as mine?"

"More or less," said Bodie, disposing of his drink with despatch. He was less than happy at the thought of spending every night sixteen feet below Ray Doyle, able to foresee a few sleepless hours. Trying not to watch the man prowling round the room, picking up and discarding objects as he went, he wished Doyle would leave. 

Seeming impervious to atmospheres, Doyle carried, put away and tidied up with a will. Finding himself in the kitchen, he peered through the window. "What's out -? Hey, you've got a garden!"

"Concrete with weeds," Bodie corrected.

"Jammy sod." Doyle unfastened the door to investigate. "We'll see you with green fingers yet. Not very big, is it?" he added, stubbing his toes on the brick wall eight paces from the door. "Still, it has possibilities."

"For what?"

"Working on the bike," offered Doyle, his mind singularly blank of suggestions.

"You don't own one." Shivering in the cool, thin breeze eddying around them, Bodie retreated to the kitchen. Making some tea, his activities ground to a halt when it dawned on him that Doyle might have - had, insisted his conscience - sold his treasured Norton to pay for the information with which to find him.

"Great, tea," said Doyle cheerfully. "I know I haven't got a bike but I've kept my tools. I'll find another. Have you eaten?" he added, still feeling guilty about his initial lack of welcome.

"Forgot to buy anything in the rush to get packed."

"Blimey, things must be bad," said Doyle irreverently. "Never mind, we can eat now. There are four take-aways down Parkway. I'm peckish myself. The couple of sausage rolls I had in the pub have sunk without a trace."

"You ate sausage rolls?" questioned Bodie with exaggerated disbelief.

"Don't start," warned Doyle, throwing a mock punch at Bodie's midriff. "I won't be long."

"I'll have an Indian."

"You'll have what you're given," Doyle called, the door slamming behind him.

Grinning, Bodie began to search for the bottle of wine he remembered seeing in one of the boxes.

It was two in the morning before Doyle left. Tempted to ask him to stay the night, Bodie refrained, trying to keep his promise not to monopolise Doyle's personal life. But listening to the faint sounds of movement above him while he lay in bed, he cursed Cowley and his bright ideas. 

oOo

 

Taking the volume of paperwork more in their stride by now, Bodie and Doyle found some hitherto difficult tasks coming to seem easy. More comfortable with each other and their new roles within CI5 they made time to continue their investigation into finding CI5's mole. Their working day spent apart most of the time, they tended to gravitate towards each other when off-duty, a task made easier by the close proximity of their living quarters.

Gaining in confidence when his would-be casual suggestions that he stay the night were never rebuffed, Bodie was still conscious that the present calm was no more than superficial, concealing depths he could only guess at. Trying to offer what he thought Doyle wanted from him, Bodie's own tension increased as he waited for the detonation which never came. Because he was unpractised in long-term subterfuge, Bodie was unaware that sometimes the effort he was making showed.

oOo

It was only when his suggestion that they resume the work-outs in the gym, which had once been a routine part of their fitness programme, was deflected for the third time that Doyle realised Bodie was avoiding any possibility of physical competition between them. It didn't take him long to realise why Bodie was so reluctant but he made no attempt to discuss his discovery or to try and challenge Bodie's thinking. His emotional life having been turned inside out, Doyle was taking this new beginning one day at a time. He dared not look that far ahead, allowing the realisation that Bodie might really want him for ever to seep in a drop at a time. Even then he found it difficult to believe, the doubts and insecurities which had festered within him during the months of their separation yet to heal. But because he was a trained observer and because he couldn't blind himself to Bodie, try as he might, he knew his failure to respond openly hurt the other man. That pain only increased Doyle's sense of inadequacy.

 

oOo

 

Having been in occupation of his new flat for over three weeks, Bodie was very nervous the night he invited Doyle to stay, aware that on every other occasion they had been on Doyle's home ground. When Doyle accepted, albeit without much enthusiasm, Bodie resisted the urge to open champagne and began to select his clothes for the morning instead, listening contentedly to the sounds emanating from the shower.

Towel-drying his hair, Doyle padded into the room in time to see Bodie choosing a tie to go with his suit. Having forgotten Bodie's habit of forward planning, his own sartorial decisions usually dependent on what was clean and to hand, unless he was out to impress, Doyle chose not to admit that recently he had been taking more care.

"Why the suit?"

"Cowley wants me to handle the security briefing tomorrow," replied Bodie, busy transferring his wallet and small change.

"So you have to wear a suit?"

"I feel more comfortable that way."

Giving a faint smile, Doyle tossed the damp towel in the direction of the radiator and began to rearrange his tousled hair with his fingers.

"You find that funny?" asked Bodie with a hint of defensiveness.

"Not funny, reassuring. It's you. I'd forgotten how hung up on images you are."

Uneasy at being under the microscope, Bodie spun round. "Now, look here - "

"You put on such a good front," continued Doyle, deaf to the interruption, "that most of the time I couldn't see behind it. I can remember a time when I would have sworn I knew all there was to know about you. I only knew what you wanted me to. When I got too close you'd back away. That had me fooled, too. It didn't dawn on me that you had your insecurities the same way I have mine. I don't suppose that much will have changed."

Bodie watched the unselfconsciously naked male animal prowling around the room, making it his own, with something very close to disbelief. "What have you got to be insecure about?"

Doyle gave him an absent glance, his attention obviously elsewhere. "The same things as everyone else, I expect, except I always imagined mine were unique. Don't panic," he added with gentle mockery, "I'm not about to confess a fetish for ladies' knickers."

"What then?"

Pausing, Doyle shook his head. "You know something, I'm not really sure any more."

"Would it help to talk?"

On the prowl again, Doyle shrugged. "The magic formula? I don't think so."

"I'm trying to stop backing off," offered Bodie awkwardly. "It's a defence mechanism that's turned into a habit. I don't know if I can break it. I'm sorry. It isn't a conscious thing."

Doyle turned slowly, an expression on his face Bodie wasn't sure how to interpret. "There's no point you apologising for being yourself or me for being me. If I didn't tell you the truth I can hardly complain because you didn't understand."

"What is the truth?" Bodie stepped into the wanderer's path.

Cool green eyes drifted over him, then away. "Who knows?" shrugged Doyle. "I thought I loved you. Maybe I did but not in the way you needed. Whatever it was, it wasn't enough for either of us." Sinking onto the padded window seat, one foot flat against the floral design, his elbow propped on a bent knee, Doyle stared out into the moonlit courtyard and the cars parked there.

Battling with an unaccustomed sense of inadequacy, Bodie studied the remote profile, a cold fear stifling his contentment. "What is it you want from me - from our relationship?" He found it painfully difficult to break a deeply-ingrained discipline and talk openly about the things which mattered most to him. Until recently there had been no place in his life for such freedom.

"Nothing special, just the moon and the stars." Doyle sounded as affectionate and indulgent as if he were reciting some childhood fantasy.

"Specifically," pressed Bodie, the distance between them seeming to widen before his eyes. His fingers brushed Doyle's night-cooled skin, settling there for reassurance.

Half-turning, Doyle glanced up at him. "You to want to be with me. Domestic bliss. Like I said, the moon and stars. It doesn't happen to people like us."

"Why not?" demanded Bodie with a trace of belligerence, prepared in that moment to tackle a prejudiced world single-handed.

Recognising as much, Doyle's smile was devoid of mockery. "Listen to us now and ask me again. I wasn't thinking of the problems two blokes setting up home together would face - or of being labelled gay or queer. I could handle them. No, we're the ones who are out of joint. What's the longest settled relationship either of us have enjoyed - four months? It was usually less than that - and not just because the lady in question got tired of being stood up three times in one week. Don't sweat it. Let's enjoy it while we can and part while we're still on speaking terms. It's odd...things between us were fine until we started sleeping together. And it's not the sex that's the problem. I dunno... It's a funny old world."

The unquestioning acceptance in Doyle's voice left Bodie torn between the twin desires of laying him out or loving him senseless, anything which might snap him out of his melancholy dream-state.

"You wish we'd never started sleeping together?" It hurt, more than he wanted to think about.

"No." While the rejection was unhesitating, it was without emphasis, Doyle's gaze remaining on the shadowy world outside the window. "It was inevitable."

"Why don't you regret it? I didn't make you happy."

"What's 'happy'?" Doyle toyed with the word as if testing an unfamiliar concept. 

What made it worse was the fact Bodie knew this was a genuine reaction rather than Doyle indulging in a conscious fit of introspection. "We have been," said Bodie doggedly. "We could be again."

Moonlight had stolen all colour from Doyle's face. "Very probably, but not with each other. We don't fit."

"Says who?" demanded Bodie with a quiet ferocity.

Lacking the emotional strength to deal with it, Doyle returned to his contemplation of the moon. "Some truths are self-evident. I know we haven't given it much of a trial this time round, but I have thought about it - us. I've thought about us a lot. One step forwards, two steps back. I can't give any more, there's nothing left. That isn't fair to you."

"You can let me be the judge of that," announced Bodie with decision, relaxing a little. If Ray could worry about fair-play there was a chance for them yet. "What's got into you tonight?" he added gently. "I know things aren't perfect but... Don't you trust me enough to be yourself?"

"I did that last time. I can't go through that again." There was a flat finality in the quiet voice, each word a dagger.

Finally understanding what Doyle had been trying to tell him without the brutality of words, Bodie could only stare at him, a cold misery engulfing him, in cruel contrast to the contentment of only minutes before. Shaking his head, he knew he had lost the right to make any reassurances and he backed away until the wall prevented farther retreat.

It's over and nothing I can say or do will put it right. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. 

Closing his eyes, he tried to deny the bleak landscape of his future. It was impossible to picture a life which didn't feature Ray Doyle, they had been inextricably bound for too long.

And it's my fault for breaking something that can't be mended.

The same light which illuminated Doyle finally betrayed Bodie, revealing the silent, silvery trails streaking his face. Bodie wasn't even conscious of them.

"Bodie? Ah, don't. It can't be helped. It isn't your fault, or mine. Just the way we are," whispered Doyle, frozen on the edge of the window seat.

Not trusting himself to speak, Bodie nodded mutely. The first indication he received that Doyle had moved came when cool fingers brushed his cheeks dry. He opened his eyes to find an anxious face in front of him. 

"I've been wrong before," said Doyle unsteadily. "Maybe I'm not making much sense. It's late, we're both tired. I didn't mean it. Dear god, I didn't mean it. I don't know what I mean," he added helplessly, hugging Bodie to him.

Held fast, soaking up Doyle's warmth, Bodie simply nodded again and allowed himself to be steered to bed. Still silent, his head turned on the pillow, his needs many and complex.

Recognising the least of them, Doyle traced Bodie's mouth with a fingertip. "I was wrong," he repeated. 

In the quiet of the night they made love without haste but much tenderness, offering their mouths and their hands and the friction of their close-tangled bodies. It seemed the sweetest, most intense moment of Bodie's life when, with Doyle's damp warmth cooling on his belly, Doyle smiled at him from the darkness.

"I need you, Ray. It may not always seem like it, but I do need you. But I need to be needed," Bodie added softly, fingertips sifting and resifting through the thick hair clumped at the nape of Doyle's neck.

"You are," said Doyle simply, before his head blotted out the moonlight spilling into the room.

And if they worked together to create a spell they seemed to be successful, for when they woke to the light of the sun all things seemed possible.

 

More subdued over breakfast than was usual for him, Bodie slid into the charcoal grey jacket of his suit. "I must go. I've got to collect Cowley at eight."

"Don't talk to any strange men on the way. I'll see you tonight." Doyle made a minute, unnecessary adjustment to Bodie's tie.

"Count on it. Unless you'd rather I came to you?"

"Upstairs or down, it makes no difference. You'd better go. I like that suit," Doyle added inconsequentially, unfastening the single button Bodie had just done up.

Bodie peered down at his midriff, then at Doyle, knowing this was far from typical behaviour on his companion's part and at a loss to account for it.

"Just get out of here before Cowley gives you a rollicking for being late," commanded Doyle gruffly, the knowledge sweeping over him of how nearly he had closed this man out of his life. How much he had hurt him...

The moon and stars... Who needs 'em?

"I'm going, I'm going." Inexplicably reassured, Bodie was humming as he ran out to the car.

oOo

 

"I know we haven't done enough cross-checking to take Neville off the list of suspects but he's off as far as I'm concerned," announced Doyle as he vaulted over Bodie and into bed.

Bodie gave a grunt of protest and threw out an arm to prevent Doyle bouncing off the mattress altogether.

"Ta. The bed's in a horrible state, what have you been doing to it?"

Giving Doyle a friendly cuff, Bodie abandoned his immediate plans for sleep.

"Here we are in the third week of September and we're no closer to finding the mole than when we started," continued Doyle, rearranging the pillows to his liking.

"Given the number of suspects, it's not surprising. We'd be better off framing Cowley," said Bodie lazily.

"Now there's a thought. Braver men than us have tried though. Why don't we settle on Murph - or Jax - instead?"

"Both of them," Bodie decided. "It would almost be worth it to see the expression on Cowley's face. He knows bloody well it isn't any of the old guard." It was an argument he had lost with the Scot only that morning.

"Maybe he can't be as sure as we can," pointed out Doyle, who was in a mellow mood.

"Because he's seen too many mates turn bad, you mean?"

Doyle nodded. "I've seen it happen, but never with anyone really close. Barry Martin was the nearest and he was only ever a drinking mate. But then you wouldn't turn - or not without orders from Cowley."

"You're that sure of me?"

"Suppose Cowley handed you incontrovertible proof that I'd been selling CI5 out over the years?" returned Doyle.

"You wouldn't."

"Ah, but Cowley doesn't believe that. It must be the loneliest feeling in the world when there's no one you can trust one hundred per cent," mused Doyle pensively, imagination able to take him only so far.

"What's with this glowing testimonial you're giving me?"

"Fact, not testimonial. Or maybe I just need to believe in someone apart from myself. I suppose every partnership on the Squad is equally convinced about its other half. I don't see how they could work together otherwise."

"Jimmy Keller and I managed to for eight months."

Doyle shot him a quick look. "I'm sorry, I forgot Keller. I know he meant a lot to you."

Bodie was silent for a moment. "He did, but not as much as I thought. I wasn't even surprised that he'd turned. Not really."

"But I thought - "

"So did I when it happened. But he reappeared when I was already confused about you and me and somehow it all got tangled up. Jimmy and I were never more than mates. I trusted you - implicitly - within three months of our being teamed. Not that I would have told you as much," added Bodie with a grin.

While it was returned, there was a troubled look in Doyle's eyes. "He was still a friend of yours."

"We aren't supposed to have friends in our business," Bodie reminded him.

"Lecture one, week one," recognised Doyle. "That's no way to live."

"It makes sense though. I used to believe it. Straight up."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Such innocence," scoffed Bodie. "That's when the real rot set in, of course, but I'd already realised how much effort it took not to get too involved. Jimmy never seemed to have that problem," he added colourlessly.

"He saved your life - twice." Doyle edged around the subject with care, not certain he wanted to hear the truth about Bodie's relationship with Keller. His imagination had provided too many possibilities as it was.

"You've done as much for a total stranger. It's part of the job," said Bodie with the realism which was so much a part of him.

"But you were partners - and friends."

"It wasn't the same," dismissed Bodie, in no doubt on that score.

"So you didn't sleep with him," said Doyle impatiently, never realising how his lightened expression betrayed him. "That doesn't change the rest, does it."

"There wasn't any 'rest'. If you're trying to make comparisons, don't. You're different."

"Not so different," argued Doyle. "We both let you down."

Making a sound of impatience, Bodie leant up on one elbow the better to direct his glare. "In case you're too thick to have realised it, people are always doing that to each other - especially in relationships that matter. You don't notice otherwise. Unless you're telepathic, empathic and a soddin' saint - and I don't think either of us qualify - it's impossible not to. The trick is not to do it too often."

Blinking at Bodie's unexpected vehemence, Doyle thought about it. "You could have a point." He sounded so surprised that Bodie laughed.

"Go to sleep, sunshine. I can hear the cogs creaking and this is no time for you to start thinking, we've got a five o'clock start."

"I'm not sleepy."

"Well, you should be. Night," said Bodie firmly.

Still wide awake thirty minutes later, and aware from the careful movements next to him that Doyle was in the same state, Bodie turned to face him. "I've just thought of this great way to make time pass," he announced soulfully, rewarded by a knowing chuckle and a surge of movement next to him.

"I bet you have. Thought you were never going to give in."

"What would you have done if I hadn't?"

"I'd've thought of something." Doyle's voice was muffled as he burrowed under the bedclothes to seek out his target.

"I believe you," mumbled Bodie, giving an involuntary twitch before his control broke.

They had to remake the bed before they could think of sleeping in it.

 

In no rush to greet the new day Bodie gave a protesting wriggle, relaxing when he remembered it was the weekend and, more to the point, that they weren't working. Opening his eyes, he found the room awash with mellow autumn sunshine which striped everything with the shadows cast by the half-open blind. His morning good will intensified as he took in the picture Doyle made sprawled next to him.

With some effort Bodie resisted the temptation to uncover the long line of Ray Doyle, settle over him and rest his cock in the intriguingly shadowed cleft of the buttocks revealed by the rumpled sheet. He contented himself with stroking Doyle lightly with the back of his fingers, finding Doyle's skin slightly damp from the unseasonal warmth of the sunlit room. Travelling across the soft down in the hollow of Doyle's spine, Bodie stilled when he brushed the paler flesh of Doyle's buttocks.

Giving an irritable twitch Doyle mumbled incomprehensibly and buried his face deeper in the pillow. The movement of his leg rucked the unwanted sheet away to reveal a muscular calf and narrow foot, the sole of which bore a scar gained when Doyle had trodden on some broken glass on Brighton beach. 

Three years ago - or was it four? Bodie couldn't be certain, Doyle too tangled in his life. But the shared memories brought no claustrophobic feelings of confinement or being tied now, only a kind of security.

Optimistically Bodie allowed himself to believe that, given time, Doyle would learn to trust him again. He had accepted that it wouldn't happen overnight. While Doyle's wariness didn't stem from a conscious decision it betrayed itself in a number of small, telling ways, not the least of which was his refusal to discuss the future. Relations were already easier between them but one thing hadn't changed, any free time they spent together was usually at Bodie's instigation or contrivance. When it was spent apart neither of them questioned the other in any way. As if we're afraid of the answers we might get. 

His expression softening, Bodie's attention returned to the man at his side, tenderness and longing both on his face. Doyle was deeply asleep, his breathing slow, deep and regular, his lips just parted. Even now what could be seen of his face wasn't wholly relaxed, as if it was a luxury he had forgotten how to enjoy. One hand beneath the pillow, the other lay curled in front of his face, the fingers curved in the laxness of sleep. 

Leaning forward, Bodie tweaked the hair lapping the nape of Doyle's neck; as thick and brown as ever, the hair was uncompromisingly straight until the last inch or so, betraying none of the grey which flecked the sides. There was a secret part of Bodie which mourned the absence of curls, but he was more accustomed to their lack now.

Under his gaze Doyle shifted position again. Trapped by his curved leg the sheet slid down until Doyle was naked to mid-thigh, his small, tight buttocks deliciously displayed in the unconscious wantonness of sleep. Unable to resist the lure any longer, Bodie nuzzled the downy hollow of Doyle's exposed back, his tongue flicking into the sweat-slick cleft, fucking the tight curl of Doyle's anus. Gluteal muscles twitching, Doyle gave a grunt of protest, wriggling away. With a shuddering sigh, Bodie gave up, his blood-engorged penis trapped against the gentle abrasion of the sheet. That providing insufficient friction, he rolled onto his back, his right hand curving around himself. His mind wholly on the man at his side, his movements gathering pace and urgency in response to the insistence of his need, Bodie's attention turned inward as he concentrated on pleasuring himself. Coming with a soundless groan, Bodie re-opened his eyes to find an amused, sleepy face only inches away.

"I would ask what you were doing if wasn't so obvious." His voice still husky from sleep, Doyle's cheek bore the imprint of the crumpled cotton of the pillow case. Only half-awake, he looked rumpled, sunny-tempered and wholly ravish-able.

"Did I wake you?" Bodie felt too good to pretend any real concern.

Recognising as much, Doyle's grin widened as he ruffled Bodie's hair. "Dreamt I was at sea, the mattress was shaking so much. That's the first time I've seen you bring yourself off. 'M sorry I missed the beginning. You looked...fantastic." One finger tracing through a cooling trail adorning Bodie's belly, Doyle tested the stickiness with his tongue before bending for more. Before he had the chance to straighten Bodie had swooped on him.

Starfished across the mattress, massaging Bodie's thigh to the rhythm established by his lover's mouth and hands, Doyle's fingers tightened as he arched, tensed and came with a soft sound close to surprise, only to be calmed by the same hands which had brought him to this.

"OK?" asked Bodie indulgently.

"There are worse ways to wake up," judged Doyle, crooking an arm around Bodie's neck before kissing him with the thoroughness which was peculiarly his own. "Was lovely. And you know it. Been awake long, had you?"

"Long enough to know what I fancy."

"And what's that?" asked Doyle, failing to interpret the expression on Bodie's face because he wasn't as awake as he looked.

"Nothing," mumbled Bodie awkwardly.

"You don't enjoy sixty-nining?" Doyle gave a quick frown.

"Silly sod, who wouldn't with you." Pausing to nuzzle Doyle's mouth, biting gently on his lower lip, it was a while before Bodie continued, "No, it's just that I feel stupid that it should have taken me so long to realise we can have it all."

"All what?" yawned Doyle, in danger of dozing off.

His lashes casting dark shadows on his cheek, Bodie's sometimes arrogant-looking mouth had softened. He gave a small wriggle which it took Doyle a moment to identify as embarrassment.

"It doesn't matter," he said instantly.

"I know," sighed Bodie. "I mean, it's not as if you haven't heard me sounding like a prat before. It hadn't dawned on me that we could enjoy all the things I assumed only happened when you were with a bird: tenderness, gentleness... I dunno. It's not the sex, you'd expect two experts like us to be perfect together. It's..."

"Us having a cuddle?"

Shooting his companion a side-on glance and finding no mockery on Doyle's face, Bodie nodded, still a little abashed. "I didn't realise you needed this side of things. Didn't realise I did, come to that. And I didn't know how to ask."

Bodie's head on his chest, Doyle tucked his chin on the short dark hair. "That makes two of us. You're not expected to be a mind-reader. And there's no way I would have asked. I was too intent on dazzling you with my virtuosity between the sheets - or anywhere else for that matter. Never realised I was that competitive - or greedy. I've always been inclined to snatch at the things I really wanted in case they got away."

Turning in the loose embrace, Bodie stared at him. "I wasn't blaming you for what happened before. Christ, it's me. Last time round I came on like some... I never meant to put you off the idea of... It doesn't have to be like that. I wouldn't hurt you."

"Right now I'm feeling so mellow I could listen to you recite the telephone directory and swear it was poetry, but what the 'ell are you on about?" enquired Doyle, his face scrunched in agonised concentration. "Put me off what?"

"You know." Bodie looked everywhere but at his companion.

"I wish I did. What are you rabbiting on about? You can tell me," Doyle added gently.

"Us. Being together," added Bodie, untypically coy.

Wholly mystified by this time, Doyle stared at him. "But we are."

"Not that."

Rubbing his nose, Doyle sat up. "You'll have to give me more of a clue. What are you talking about?"

"Fucking," snapped Bodie with more of his usual knack for getting to the heart of a subject.

"OK, I'm with you so far." Doyle fought not to laugh, realising Bodie was in deadly earnest. And it was true that they had avoided both the subject and the act, whatever their private thoughts. "What are you supposed to have done to scare me off the idea?" he asked gently.

Bodie's guilty expression revived memories Doyle had been at some pains to bury.

"Oh, that. It's over. We both wish it hadn't happened. It wouldn't have if I hadn't overdone it in the gym with Fields."

Gaining no response, Doyle wriggled a little closer, one hand on Bodie's forearm as he sought to reinforce his point. "It took me a while to realise how up-tight you were then because I was in the same state, if for different reasons. Violence has never been your style - off-duty. Yet you stopped short of rape. God knows how because I couldn't have done as much in similar circumstances," he added honestly.

"You wouldn't have been in similar circumstances. Besides, I wasn't thinking of the other month," Bodie added shamefacedly.

"You've been keeping a list?" Doyle's attempt at levity fell on stony ground.

"Maybe I should. I seem to make a habit of it."

"That's a load of bollocks and you know it. No guilt trips, sunshine."

Bodie gave a faint smile at that. "You're a fine one to talk. No, I wasn't. Not really." Staring over Doyle's shoulder, he was lost to unhappy memories. "I made you walk out on me once, never again."

"I walked out on - " Recognising that he was perilously close to the inquest he had sworn to avoid, Doyle stopped. Knowing he had missed the point behind this conversation and that it mattered to Bodie, he tried again. "I don't remember," he admitted simply.

"You must. It was just before Cook joined up. I wanted to fuck you. You turned me down, we argued and you left. The next day you came that close to getting your head full of shotgun pellets."

"I'd forgotten about that," murmured Doyle, relaxing now he knew the worst. "I was as mad as hell with you that night," he added with a reminiscent grin.

"Knew I'd scared you off coming on strong like that." Bodie sounded no happier for having been proved right.

"You do harp on. Listen, and listen good, mate, because I'm getting tired of you on a breast-beating kick. I was not - not, got it? - scared, revolted or turned off. I was bloody furious. Thought you were taking me for granted. For a man of the world you came out with a horrible chat-up line that night."

"What did I say?" There was a wary apprehension on Bodie's face that eased when he saw Doyle's grin.

"Something along the lines of, 'This is your lucky night, sunshine. Spread 'em'."

Bodie stared at him in appalled disbelief. "You're having me on?"

"Afraid not." Wholly relaxed, Doyle willed him to share the joke.

"Bloody hell. I was lucky you just walked out. I'd still be walking with a limp otherwise. I said...?" Bodie shook his head. "I know I was nervous but that's ridiculous."

"Realised that - afterwards. I didn't say anything because I didn't think you'd welcome me having recognised the fact."

"You were right. What a prat. But I was nervous, more so than my first time out."

"Yeah? I never had time for nerves. Was so steamed up I came before I got myself unzipped. She was well pleased as you can imagine," said Doyle, amused at his teenage self.

"You wouldn't have given up there."

"You're right, I didn't but I caught hell because it was my school trousers I came over. Broke the zip, too," Doyle added pensively, although his eyes were glinting with amusement. "You daft sod, blaming yourself. Wish we'd sorted it out straight away. My bloody temper. Often wished I'd stayed because you never mentioned 'aving me again. Didn't pick up on any of my hints either. Thought you'd gone off the idea, and the way things were between us I didn't dare push it." His regret was obvious.

Only then did Bodie remember Doyle's halting explanation of weeks ago, believing him implicitly this time. Giving a rueful sigh he nerved himself to meet Doyle's gaze. "I'll make a bargain with you. If you don't like something I do, you say so. You want something you're not getting, you tell me. I'll do the same."

While he doubted the latter part of that speech, Doyle nodded. "It's a deal."

This time their kiss was a prolonged, enthusiastic affair. Glazed-eyed with lust by the time they drew apart, Doyle thorough in all he undertook, Bodie found himself being handed a tube of lubricant. He dropped it.

"No. It isn't important."

"Your nose will grow if you tell lies. I've been waiting a long time for this. Shut up, Bodie," Doyle added when Bodie opened his mouth to protest. "We've already had this discussion. I've kept quiet this long because I didn't want to steamroller you into something you didn't want. Hoped you did, mind. Now that's been sorted out, why delay? I'm willing, you're able and it's the weekend. Two blissful days off."

Ridiculously nervous, Bodie sat in the centre of the bed, the sheet tucked under his armpits like some outraged spinster. "What makes you think this is the appropriate moment?" he mumbled weakly, staring at the tube as if he expected it to bite.

"The fact there's no CI5 for two days," replied Doyle cheerfully. Truth be told his main desire was to go back to sleep but he was superstitiously afraid that if they abandoned the subject they would never dare raise it again. He was tired of living with the ghosts of their failure. "It wouldn't do for our little lambs to see the Ice Man limping. They might start thinking I'm human as well as deaf." His amusement changed to understanding as he watched the range of expressions which travelled across Bodie's face. "If you really don't fancy the idea you only have to say," he added gently.

"It's not that," Bodie dismissed with an absent confidence, giving an unconscious shiver of desire, his balls in knots and his brain in a ferment.

"Well, that's a step in the right direction. So where's the problem? You must know you're beautiful in bed."

There was a lengthy pause during which Bodie worried his lower lip. "What if I hurt you?" he blurted out. "You're... That is... I'm - "

" - well-endowed?" 

"It isn't a laughing matter, Ray. You know the risks."

"I know you, too. I'm not some kid being gang-banged or a martyr on the altar of your lust but the bloke who loves you and wants you. I remember the pleasures when I made love to you. Unless you were lying, it was good for you, too. I want to know that - with you."

"Christ, so do I," groaned Bodie. "But - " Again he came to a grinding halt.

"You're worried about being too big? Or rather me being too small?" guessed Doyle, Bodie's look of relief killing the joke he had intended to make. "I don't claim to be the expert on the male body, or at least not the bits in question, but you and I are about the same size erect. You're a fraction thicker maybe. Agreed? Come on, sunshine. You can't have forgotten our measuring contest."

Bodie's expression relaxed as he rubbed his forehead against Doyle's. "Not till my dying day. But - "

"You took me in without any problems," Doyle reminded him, stroking down Bodie's back until his fingertips traced the swell of Bodie's buttocks.

"I know, but it was easier for me, I'm bigger."

"Not where it matters you can't be."

"How do you know?"

Resisting the urge to tie Bodie to the bed before carrying out the definitive study of the orifice in question, Doyle took a patient breath and persevered. "Another thing I'm not the expert on is the human anus and lower bowel, least of all my own. That said, are you going to sit there and tell me that in all the medicals I've had to endure over the years - given Henderson's love of poking things into every available opening - that if I wasn't normal I wouldn't have heard about it?"

"No, but..." Bodie gave the lubricant he had been squashing a troubled look, by now only distantly aware that his betraying erection was poking at the sheet which covered him.

Wholly aware of it for his own part, Doyle peeled the sheet away with great care. "Well, he seems keen enough and I'm going to lose my mind if we don't do something about the problem soon. Talking about sex usually turns me on at the best of times. Forget your worries, let's investigate the possibilities and see how the idea grabs you as we go along."

"I - Give me time?" His voice husky, Bodie was afraid of wanting Doyle too much.

Reading that, and more, in his eyes, Doyle shook his head. "You daft bugger. Come here," he said gruffly.

Their bodies slid gratefully together.

Unfortunately, by the time Bodie, who was still uncommonly nervous, had satisfied himself as to the position of maximum comfort for Doyle, their research was irrelevant, Bodie's seed pulsing onto Doyle's much desired buttocks. Chagrined, relieved and bashful, Bodie stared from his now softened cock to Doyle who, having been reduced to a state of boneless ecstasy after a prolonged prostate massage, had no immediate problems - save for a fit of the giggles.

"It's not funny," said Bodie with reproach. "Hasn't happened to me in years. Terrible bloody timing." His own mouth was twitching by this time. 

"You're telling me," sighed Doyle. Propped on his side, he nudged his own laxness with a careful finger. "And I had a lovely time."

"Be ready for another one soon."

"Oh, I like an optimist. I've shot my bolt - so unless you've got anything up your sleeve?"

"While it pains me to admit it, not a flicker."

"Poor old man," mocked Doyle affectionately. "Well, no point wasting the day mourning past glories. Seeing as how we've ruined the sheets for nothing - did you have to leave the top off the KY? - I'm off to take a leak, have a nap, followed by an enormous breakfast."

"Brunch. It's almost eleven."

"So it is. Time flies when you're having fun. What shall we do today?"

"Know what I'd like to do," said Bodie wistfully.

"Soon as you're ready," promised Doyle his steady gaze infinitely reassuring.

"I meant until then."

"A watched pot never boils." Doyle was cradling Bodie's lax penis in his palm, caressing the velvety softness with the side of his thumb, an absorbed expression on his face.

"Ray?" When Doyle looked up enquiringly, Bodie said sheepishly, "I just wanted to say your name."

Doyle's smile licked headily around him, its sweetness unfeigned. "'S OK," he promised. "Now, what are we going to do?"

"We should get on with our investigation for Cowley."

Giving him a swift kiss, Doyle left the bed. "Bugger Cowley." 

"Horrible thought. How about a quiet weekend at home? I'll put up those shelves you need while you shop for both of us. Game of squash, a run, nice meal somewhere and an early night," finished Bodie, following Doyle into the bathroom in time to see him disappear into the shower.

"Oh, subtle. Sounds good though - except the bit about me doing the shopping."

"I'll go and start breakfast. You need to keep your strength up," said Bodie, stroking Doyle's water-slick buttock.

A wet arm drew him into the cubicle, whose size left little room for manoeuvre.

"You're hopeful, aren't you." Bodie's hands ran pleasurably down Doyle's torso.

"Nah, just thought it would be nice."

Nuzzling Doyle's mouth open, taking care not to drown under the flow of water, Bodie paused to take in air and smile. "You were right."

 

Full of well-being, Doyle gave a lengthy stretch, his thoughts wonderfully concentrated when a fresh tube of lubricant landed on his naked belly.

"I didn't hear you come in," he told Bodie, his attention returning to the tube.

"I gathered that much. Instead of lying there admiring it, you could apply the stuff where it will do the most good."

"If you came a bit closer and gave me something to work on, I will."

Bodie's smile faded. "I'd rather you went first - to test the water, so to speak."

"You're not afraid of me?"

"Don't be daft. Not you. Me. Last time - I don't want it to be like that again."

Leaving the bed, Doyle coaxed the bent head up and kissed him on the cheek, trust and affection rather than passion in the gesture, before his hands settled at Bodie's naked flanks, stroking them gently. "I could tell you it won't be like that till the cows come home but you're not going to believe me. Actions speak louder than words." Hands cupping Bodie's buttocks, his thumbs stroked the undercheek, tickling Bodie's balls, teasing him into arousal.

"I know you're right but... Fuck me, Ray. It'll be lovely," Bodie coaxed, easing Doyle onto the bed and following him down, his palm travelling up an auburn-downed thigh until his knuckles brushed Doyle's testicles.

"I'm not disputing that much." Doyle's resolve was receding as fast as his tumescence increased.

"Great." Abandoning any further discussions, Bodie unfastened the cap of the tube with a flourish. Unwisely, he lavished too much attention on Doyle as he anointed him and found himself with KY on his fingers, fresh semen on his arm and a breathy sigh in his ear.

"Bugger!" said Bodie with feeling.

Sprawled bonelessly across the mattress Doyle gave a weak-sounding chuckle. "What did you expect? You know how it always turns me on when you massage my balls like that, never mind stick your tongue - "

"I might have known it would be my fault," grumbled Bodie half-heartedly, wiping his fingers on the sheet.

"You should have saved that," reproved Doyle, reaching for the depleted tube and thrusting it at Bodie. "How d'you want me, on my side, my back or my knees? And don't," he added, his gaze on Bodie's bobbing, blood-engorged penis, "say you don't want me."

"I won't," Bodie promised him fervently, beyond argument. "Be easier on your knees the first time."

Pausing only to offer a featherlight kiss to the weeping tip of Bodie's cock, Doyle turned, spreading himself wide.

Bodie's hands swept down the length of Doyle's spine to cup his small buttocks, fingertips caressing the satiny warmth before he planted a kiss on the ring of muscle, his tongue a warm darting probe.

Doyle arched and gave a soft moan at the intimacy, his eyes opening as Bodie's lubricant-slick fingers eased into his body. Distantly aware of Bodie's voice in the background, Doyle's senses were all concentrated on touch, the discomfort and pressure forgotten as sparks of pleasure ran along his nerve endings when Bodie found his prostate, teasing him to a near frenzy.

"All right?" asked Bodie finally, his clipped tone betraying his strain.

"Very," Doyle gasped. "Any time you're ready."

For all Doyle's certainty, when the probing touch between his buttocks changed, initial discomfort sharpened, pressure increasing to the point where Doyle's knuckles were yellow where he clenched the pillow, the sound of pain he could not contain muffled there as Bodie's cock threatened to split him in two.

More than halfway home, Bodie stopped, his expression one of anguished desperation, afraid to move but achingly conscious of the glorious sensations of the tight velvet fist gripping him. "Ray?"

"'S all right. Just...don't move...for a minute." Remembering to breathe, Doyle's sense of being stretched beyond endurance was easing, the fullness no longer suffocating. Taking a deep breath he moved infinitesimally backwards, raising his pelvis a fraction and was immediately more comfortable. Encouraged, he moved again and felt Bodie shudder as he slid deeper.

"Stroke me," begged Doyle, his breathing as harsh as Bodie's, sweat blurring his vision. "Yeah. Feels good," he added, impaling himself a little more. His breath caught in a wholly different way. "Oh yeah, yeah. Come on. Do it!"

Bodie was beyond argument, moving strongly before the end of that breathless command, eyes blind, a slave to the demands of the pressure of his swollen testicles. Seconds after Doyle's cock thudded in his hand Bodie tensed and came, his pubic curls crushed against the small mound of Doyle's wide-spread arse, his mouth against the salt of Doyle's skin.

Bodie was sweating so heavily that it was a few moments before he realised his eyes were wet.

Having collapsed against the mattress, Doyle's head slowly turned on the pillow, his sweat-clumped hair tangled, eyes very bright, a look of sated triumph in place. "Told you there'd be no problem," he mumbled huskily.

Mindful of his responsibilities Bodie slipped free with regret and sank back onto his heels, as dazed as a punch-drunk boxer. "But there was." His speech thickened, his tongue didn't seem to belong to him.

Turning labouriously onto his back, which tried to disown him, Doyle's knee brushed his flank. "So? We got there. Christ, but you got there. If it was this good our first time round just think how fantastic it'll be with a bit of practice. You OK?"

His vision blurred, Bodie studied the sated face, Doyle's appalling air of satisfaction confirmation enough. "More than that. You must be sore though."

"True." Doyle didn't bother to cover his mouth as he yawned, the urge to sleep dragging his eyelids shut, although his body was still singing, remembered touches imprinted on his nerve endings.

"Does your back ache?"

"I've known worse - and without any of the pleasure. I want more of that. You're beautiful. You won't 'ave to tie your balls in knots on my account next time either." Opening his eyes when the silence stretched onwards, Doyle's smile was dazzling. "D'you often kneel on the bed grinning like an idiot?"

"Feel like I just invented the wheel." Unselfconsciously wiping a trace of moisture from beneath his eyes, Bodie leant forward until his arms framed Doyle's face. "It could be habit-forming. Love you." Neither expecting nor needing any reply his kiss was delicate, no more than the brushing of lip to parted lip, the flick of a tongue.

"Can do better than that," Doyle chided, dragging Bodie down, his arms and legs wrapping round him in a fierce embrace, as if trying to get inside Bodie's skin by osmosis. They tumbled around on the mattress until he found himself cushioned on his mate's body, Bodie's square-tipped hands rubbing the hollow of his spine.

"Strewth, you're heavier than you look. But beautiful," Bodie added, love in his eyes, his mouth tender.

Burying his face in the hollow of Bodie's throat, Doyle licked the pulse point there. "No, that's your department but I appreciate the compliment. D'you want me to move?"

"Nah, I'm going numb now," said Bodie bravely.

"You've got bloody sharp hip bones," complained Doyle, yawning again as he subsided onto the mattress, this time remembering to settle himself with more care. Feeling slick, sore and very conscious of his lower body, an echo of the sense of Bodie filling him remaining, he gave a small wriggle. Conceding defeat, he crawled out of bed and cautiously set off for the bathroom.

Having looked to be on the edge of sleep, Bodie almost beat him to the door. "What's wrong?"

Shaking his head at him, Doyle stepped into the shower. "Absolutely nothing. But we don't have any more clean sheets and I wasn't quite sure what was seeping..." Uncharacteristic delicacy caused him to trail off into silence.

"Sweet as a flower," Bodie assured him fatuously, seconds before a wet flannel caught him in the face.

oOo

 

"Thanks very much, mate," said Doyle tartly when he finally arrived home. "Two hours I've been with Cowley."

"There was no point both of us suffering. It's not my fault I can sprint faster than you."

"The ten yard start helped. You wait," Doyle told him darkly.

"Drink this and stop complaining. I'm cooking us dinner."

Doyle reeled back in amazement.

"Don't be like that," said Bodie with a grin. "I can cook. I even enjoy doing it - once or twice a year." Pausing, he peered into the fragrant depths of a saucepan, gave the contents a desultory poke and stuck the saucepan lid back on. "That should be OK. The rice needs a few more minutes yet. There's something for you in the garden."

Taking a reviving swig of lager, Doyle saluted him with the can. "Do I look like I was born yesterday? Not a chance. I remember some of your booby traps of old."

"I'm not setting you up, honest. Oh, and close your eyes. It's a surprise."

Stopping in his tracks, Doyle just looked at him.

"Would I set you up? Well, yes, I would, but not tonight. Promise."

"Then why can't I simply walk out there and see whatever it is?" demanded Doyle, intrigued despite himself. Trying to peer over a broad shoulder gained him nothing but a friendly pat, the garden unlit and uninformative.

"Because you'll spoil the surprise, of course. I had a job wrapping it up."

Belatedly recognising the anticipation Bodie was trying to hide, a wave of affection submerged Doyle. "All right," he sighed, setting down his can. "I know exactly how much is in there, mind, so no nicking any while my eyes are shut. All right?"

"Very," murmured Bodie, kissing him lightly before propelling him in the direction of the door, his hand over the cleft of Doyle's buttocks, defying the usual convention when steering another.

"Some people will do anything for a grope," remarked Doyle, making no attempt to fight Bodie off. "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Yep. There it is. What do you think?"

"What the hell's it supposed to be?" demanded Doyle, staring wide-eyed at the Norton bike propped against the wall, a ribbon tied around the handlebars.

Undeceived, Bodie saw the love-light shining from Doyle's eyes. "A late birthday pressie." But he spoke to himself, Doyle already crouched beside the bike, his fingers running over the corroded engine casing. "Well, you said you'd kept your tools - and it was begging for a good home," he blustered, as Doyle rose to his feet, advancing on him with slow purpose.

"You're a bloody liar," Doyle told him fondly, taking the edges of Bodie's jacket in each hand and nudging him into the kitchen. "The demand for these is so great it's a wonder you weren't mown down in the rush. It's in wonderful condition."

His glance flicking back to the lump of rusting scrap metal, Bodie accepted that love was blind. "If you say so. Where are we going? I thought you might want to take a closer look at her."

"I will, tomorrow. But I was taught it was rude not to say thank you for a pressie - and I'm not about to write you a note."

"Still got a problem managing joined-up writing?" asked Bodie solicitously, giving a gasp as clever fingers sought him out. "Dinner will get burnt," he added, striving for coherence.

Wide-eyed, Doyle stared at him with engaging solemnity as he leant back against the door, using his weight to close it. "Play your cards right, so might we. Which do you fancy most?" Pelvis thrust forward, he tucked a hand in his waistband and gave Bodie a sultry look.

"You wicked little sod. I don't give up food for just anybody." 

"I appreciate that."

"But I wouldn't mind having another practice - you stopped limping days ago."

"Graciously put, but I wouldn't quarrel with the sentiment. Come on, then. Just one thing - this time you can take the sheets to the laundrette."

 

They never made it to the bedroom, Bodie taking Doyle over the arm of the sofa, their clothing only partially discarded. Finally righting themselves, they stripped and dozed in the centrally heated sitting room, pillowed on each other.

"I've just had a horrible thought," mumbled Bodie, recovering from an invigorating nap. "I've got a session with Macklin tomorrow morning - 6 a.m. He'll murder me."

"Probably," agreed Doyle callously. "But at least you exhausted yourself in a good cause."

"Somehow I don't think Brian's going to look on me shagging you as a good excuse. Not that I plan to put it to the test by telling him. Maybe he'll break his leg before morning."

"Optimist." In a blissful state between sleep and wakefulness, Doyle gave a comfortable wriggle, enjoying Bodie's one-handed massage of his lower back.

"I'm starving," announced Bodie, a few minutes later.

"So am I. Did you remember to switch off the cooker before we left the kitchen?"

"Can't expect me to think of everything," said Bodie defensively. Though it would account for the funny smell."

"Someone should see to it."

"True," conceded Bodie, giving a smug little grin as Doyle labouriously clambered to his feet.

"I'll do that much - you can clean the saucepan tomorrow. What d'you fancy to eat? You can have a cheese sandwich or a cheese sandwich."

"Oh, I think a cheese sandwich," said Bodie after some deliberation. "Going to wait on me hand and foot, are you? I must have been good."

"You had your moments," Doyle allowed, a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. "But don't push your luck."

"About all I could push tonight," Bodie admitted cheerfully, propping himself up from where he had been reclining on the sofa the better to enjoy the sight of Doyle as he walked from the room, his gait a little more stiff-legged than was usual.

oOo

 

Rushing into their communal hallway two days later, Doyle almost collided with Bodie prior to leaping up the stairs three at a time. "Can't stop! Cowley expected me ten minutes ago. Traffic's horrible. You busy?"

Bodie shook his head, realised the uselessness of the gesture and followed Doyle up to his flat. "What needs doing?"

"Be a mate and pack me a bag. It's formal. Could be for two days," called Doyle, disappearing into the bathroom, stripping as he went.

Returning to his own flat to take three shirts from his wardrobe, placing no faith in Doyle's to provide any that would be suitable, Bodie packed with a neatness and despatch inherited from his army days. Packing right down to replacement batteries for Doyle's electric razor, he made coffee on the off-chance Doyle would have time to drink it.

"I owe you," acknowledged Doyle from the kitchen doorway, looking unfamiliar in a light grey suit, white shirt and burgundy tie. He was even wearing dark grey shoes. He looked elegant, severe and wholly unfamiliar, his now long mane of hair subdued.

Trying to cover his surge of emotion Bodie mimed fainting at the sight, earning himself a wry grin.

"I go back in the shop window tomorrow."

"So I should think. I haven't seen you look this smart for...a long time. All you need to make you the perfect city gent is a haircut."

"Not a chance," said Doyle, burying his nose in the steam rising from the mug of coffee. "Magic. I'm going to need something sustaining. These diplomatic dos are a pain in the bum. And I shouldn't look too smug if I was you, Cowley's expecting you to mind the store while we're gone."

Giving a theatrical groan, Bodie decided he enjoyed the sight of Doyle in a suit almost as much as Doyle out of one.

"Assuming you don't get called in, what will you do tonight?" asked Doyle abruptly.

Surprised by the change of subject, Bodie shrugged. "Probably watch the box."

Propped against the sink unit, Doyle gave him a thoughtful look. "That's not in character. What happened to your notorious black book of phone numbers? It's time you got yourself back in the social whirl."

"I lost it in one of the moves," replied Bodie numbly. 

"Why haven't you collected a new set?" 

"You'll be late for Cowley."

"I already am. He'll keep. This is important. I don't want you changing on my account. I like you the way you are. If you want to enjoy a few nights with a bird, have 'em. It won't alter what's between us. I know you don't need dispensation from me to do anything, but for what it's worth, you've got it."

Bodie glared at him with no sign of gratitude. "I think your brain has finally given up under the strain," he said coldly. "If you think I'm about to say the same thing, forget it. I can't stop you and I won't try to but I'm buggered if I'll pretend I like the idea. Forget what I used to do. As you keep telling me, people change or they vegetate."

Doyle's gaze was concentrated on his shoes as if they were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. "I got it wrong again, didn't I. Only I thought - "

"Don't think," Bodie told him kindly, "it only confuses you. Have you - ? Forget I asked, it's none of my business."

That made Doyle look up, his intense, unblinking gaze commanding attention. "Been sleeping with anyone else recently? No. Been seeing anyone else? No. Been tempted? Nothing I couldn't resist. It's your business," Doyle added steadily, aware he had hurt and angered Bodie yet again and wondering if he would ever get it right. Given his track record it seemed unlikely.

Relaxing, Bodie shook his head at him, a resigned smile lighting his face. "What am I going to do with you, eh? It's OK, I knew what you meant by the offer. Silly sod. You'd better get a move on, Cowley will be spitting tacks by now."

Gulping down the last of his forgotten coffee, Doyle nodded. "Look after yourself." Offering a parting clap to Bodie's flank, he spun away but turned at the door. "Bugger Cowley." Dropping the bag, he gave Bodie a deep, coffee-flavoured kiss before snatching up his holdall again and leaving at a run, the front door banging as he clattered down the stairs before the main door slammed.

"Bugger Cowley," Bodie agreed in the silent kitchen.


	13. Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

Unshaven and heavy-eyed, propped in the doorway while he watched Bodie take their meal from the microwave, Doyle's crumpled suit and limp shirt offered an accurate reflection of the man wearing them, his tie having been at half mast before he came through the front door.

"Here you go, get your laughing gear wrapped round this. You look knackered."

"Cheers. So would you after a fifty-six hour meeting. Cowley must run on clockwork or something," groaned Doyle, subsiding onto the nearest chair, his elbows propped on the table, fingers laced in his hair. "And I hate those bloody ear-pieces we had to wear," he added grumpily, one finger delving graphically in his ear.

"You could always learn Arabic."

"I'm having enough trouble with English right now. Mmn, this is good. Fuck," mumbled Doyle, having burnt his tongue with an over-large forkful of lasagne. Watery-eyed, he continued to eat at a more decorous pace, glancing from Bodie's untouched plate to Bodie. "Are you sickening for something?" 

"I've already eaten. This is just to keep you company."

"You're all heart."

"Anything useful come from the meeting?" 

"Enough hot air to fill a few balloons. All I've got to show for it are corns on my bum and a few scorch marks. Cowley's in a lousy mood. I dunno why CI5 was involved in the first place, it should've been MI6's baby. But El-Fayeed asked for Cowley. George," Doyle added, his loaded fork waving in a dangerous manner, "was not amused at having his time wasted. I left him planning a few well-chosen words for the Foreign Office. He told me to bugger off home."

"No, he didn't," said Bodie with certainty.

Doyle waved that irrelevance aside. "Close enough." 

"Are you finished for the day?" 

"There'll be trouble if I'm not. It's Sunday. Day of rest. And I intend to," declared Doyle, pushing his empty plate away and casting covetous eyes at Bodie's.

With a hard-done-by sigh Bodie pushed it across to him. "Did they forget to feed you?" 

"They didn't, but Cowley made sure I was never around at meal times. By the time he'd stopped sending me off for confidential chats with the fourteen different factions I missed every meal going. I only just managed to grab the occasional stale sandwich. The food looked gorgeous, too," Doyle mourned. Two-thirds of the way through Bodie's meal his pace began to slow.

"That's better," he announced finally. "It would have been handy to have a microwave in the old days. Has anything exciting come in while I've been away?" 

"Nothing new. We got the verdict on the Pennell trial on Friday afternoon - fifteen years. Anson wrapped up the funny money op. and no, I haven't found the mole."

"I'm disappointed in you, Holmes."

"That's who we could do with to crack this one. I've been over the printouts until I'm cross-eyed. We've cleared the team in the computer room. Apart from illicit nookie and smoking grass at parties they're clean as a whistle. That leaves the rest of the clerical back up."

"It could be that simple," defended Doyle.

Bodie hooted with laughter. "Then I'm Father Christmas."

"You can't be - no beard. I've eaten too much," Doyle discovered, trying and failing to find any leeway between his waistband and himself.

"That'll teach you. Go and sleep it off. You look like you could use a kip."

"I could, later. I need to unwind first. D'you fancy a walk? I couldn't run if you paid me."

"Don't panic, I'm not likely to. OK."

"I'll go and change," said Doyle, giving his suit a disparaging tweak.

"What about the washing up?" 

Treating that suggestion with the contempt it deserved, Doyle drifted out of the room. He reappeared, looking more familiar in slacks and a cream sweater, as Bodie was putting the last plate away.

"No jeans?" queried Bodie with a grin.

"I didn't think they'd do up and I didn't want to go to any unnecessary effort to find out." Doyle gave the spotless kitchen an ingenuous smile. "Oh, you've cleared up. You should have waited. I would have helped."

"Don't push your luck. How about driving out to Marlowe for a walk along the river bank?" 

"Which was your favourite pub?" mused Doyle, his shower obviously having woken him up.

"Get out of here. But if you're good I'll buy you a shandy."

"Gosh, thanks," breathed Doyle.

In the event, he slept noiselessly, curled in the front seat of the car all the way there and did not stir for another forty minutes after that, woken by a youthful party tearing through the car park. Giving Bodie an apologetic grin, he stretched and sniffed the air, only to pull a face.

"What's that pong?" 

"I shudder to think. With a bit of luck we'll leave it behind us."

They had been strolling along the towpath for almost an hour, talking in a desultory fashion, when Bodie stopped in his tracks, a look of accusation on his face. "You've shaved off your beard!"

"I wondered when you'd notice," said Doyle placidly.

"I thought there was something different," said Bodie defensively, casting what were intended to be surreptitious glances at his companion as they resumed their perambulations. "What made you decide to shave it off?" 

"Mainly the fact that you packed my razor. I wondered if you were trying to be subtle." Doyle chose not to admit that, having noticed how grey his beard was, his attention for much of Saturday had been divided between the conference and wondering if the beard made him look old. In consequence, when he should have grabbed an hour's sleep he had borrowed a cut throat and some scissors and got rid of the beard.

Bodie had the grace to look abashed. "Habit," he mumbled, melting with lust.

Over a mile from the nearest pub, the towpath was deserted, the bank too choked with rushes to suit fishermen. No boats were within earshot, the only sounds those of the wind in the drooping tendrils of the willow trees which lined this portion of the river bank, some nearby ducks and a jet passing overhead. Surrendering to temptation Bodie drew his companion under the shelter of the nearest willow to caress the now smooth jaw, the skin of which was only a little paler than the rest of Doyle's face.

"I don't know which I prefer. This is how I always think of you but the beard looked good - or maybe it's just you." Leaning forwards, he kissed Doyle with unhurried pleasure, trusting in the sun-dappled shadows cast by the willow which curtained them to protect them from public view.

His back to the tree trunk, Bodie in front of him, Doyle was in no hurry to break the embrace. "I must be as crazy as you," he murmured after a final, languid kiss. "While I appreciate the thought, this isn't a good idea in a public place."

"Let's find a private one," groaned Bodie.

Bodie's erection grinding against him, Doyle glanced around. "I reckon this is the closest we'll find round here." Delicately stroking the hard curves of Bodie's buttocks, he unfastened the catch and fly of the other man's slacks and carefully eased down the navy briefs before his mouth settled over Bodie's straining shaft.

It was quickly done, Bodie's legs trembling, his fingers locked over Doyle's shoulders as he gave a soft cry, swiftly cut off, frozen in the moment of climax. Reeling from the speed of his release, he found himself draped against Doyle while his clothing was deftly set to rights with never a word spoken.

"That's the biggest turn-on I've... You're crazy! What if anyone had seen us?" spluttered Bodie when he trusted his mouth to obey him rather than curve in a distinctly dopey grin.

"They didn't," pointed out Doyle with a sleepy serenity, his tongue flicking out to remove a trace of semen from the corner of his mouth.

"You're mad," sighed Bodie, doing his best to ignore his body's twitch of response. "Quite, quite mad." He punctuated each word with leisurely nuzzlings. "What about you though?" he rubbed gently at Doyle's sweetly defined genitals.

"Let's not compound the felony." Doyle drew away a little, only now appreciating the risk he had taken. "Besides, I'm too knackered to do you justice. You can make it up to me later. But it was...lovely. I would have taken my time but you looked a bit desperate."

"Felt it," admitted Bodie cheerfully. "Let's stay here for a while," he suggested, seeing Doyle blink as the breeze stirred the willow, allowing sunshine into their leafy haven; he looked like a sleepy dormouse disturbed in mid-winter. "Sit here and watch the river."

"You turning naturalist on me?" 

"What, nut rissoles and open-toed sandals? Do me a favour," begged Bodie, sinking onto the grass. "Come on, it's dry."

Needing no further urging, Doyle slid down the trunk of the willow to subside bonelessly, his outstretched legs bracketing Bodie. "I'm dreaming this," he murmured with a slight shake of his head, but Bodie looked contented enough, squinting against the sun spotlighting him, the breeze ruffling his hair. Smiling, Doyle allowed his heavy eyelids to close.

Within a couple of minutes his previous statement was a distinct possibility. Only when the sky darkened, rain beginning to penetrate their leafy shelter, did Bodie harden his heart and wake the sleeper.

Heavy-limbed and drugged with fatigue, Doyle made it back to the car on automatic pilot. His last coherent memory was of Bodie pushing him up the stairs and tugging off his boots.

 

"Ray! Come on, sunshine. Time for work." Abandoning gentle persuasion, Bodie bounced on the mattress until he found himself under a sticky and sour-eyed surveillance.

"Gerroff, you bloody maniac. It's only six-thirty," Doyle added with disgust, sliding back down the bed and drawing the sheet over his face.

Bodie pulled it away. "And we have to go to work."

"Correction," snapped Doyle, sitting up to snatch the sheet back, "you have to. I've got the morning off. To catch up on some sleep," he added pointedly.

"I needn't have disturbed you."

Bodie seemed so genuinely contrite that Doyle's thaw was instant and unpremeditated. "It doesn't matter - gives me more time to gloat."

"You should have told me. I'm not used to Cowley showing consideration for his staff."

"Perhaps he's feeling his age," joked Doyle, before he sobered. "He's fifty-nine, Bodie. Out on his ear in a year." Bodie, who had not been listening, gave a vague grunt of assent. "I meant to tell you I had the time off, fell asleep before I had the chance." 

"I did notice." Bodie's attention turned to the hands unfastening his towelling robe. "What d'you think you're doing?" 

"Memory failing you, is it?" 

"There isn't time."

Recognising a half-hearted protest when he heard one, Doyle dragged Bodie onto the bed and knelt above him, lightly fingering his own cock. "I've got plenty. Time, too."

"Tormenting sod. Come on, then. But if I'm late you can explain why to Cowley."

While Bodie was undoubtedly late, he chose to make his own inventive explanation.

 

Whistling as he walked in the main entrance to CI5 later that day, there was a spring in Doyle's step, his good mood undiminished by the fact he had an afternoon of lecturing in front of him, Cowley having rung through with the good news just before he left the flat.

"Afternoon," he said casually to the stranger on the security desk as he flipped his identification to a close.

"One moment, sir. May I see your identity card again."

"Sure," said Doyle equably, glad to find that unlike Fred or Sam this new man took his job seriously. "Is this your first day - ?" The Browning pointed at his mid-section silenced him.

"Hands on your head please, sir."

"Eh? Come off it. What d'you want, blood? You've seen my ID," protested Doyle, having dismissed the fleeting possibility that headquarters had been over-run by terrorists.

"I've seen Raymond Doyle's identity card."

"What is this, some kind of a practical joke? Bodie set this up, did he?" Still tolerant, Doyle was smiling, although his watchful gaze missed nothing.

"Hands on your head. Now!"

Hearing the harder edge to the guard's voice, and realising from the sounds of rapidly approaching footsteps that he must have hit the alarm to the duty office, Doyle did as he was commanded, his identification still held in one hand. Behind his seeming confidence the guard was young and nervous; Doyle had no wish to find himself with a second navel.

"Harry, what have you got?" 

The speaker was beyond Doyle's line of vision, the voice unfamiliar. Listening to Harry's explanation and unwillingly putting his hands behind him for his wrists to be cuffed, Doyle rolled his eyes heavenwards. While prepared to concede the photograph on his identity card wouldn't put David Bailey out of business, it wasn't that bad.

"The joke's over, fellas," he said patiently.

The newcomer, who looked even younger than Harry, gave Doyle a frosty stare as he stepped back. "Neither of us is laughing, sir. This way, please."

Flanked by men a good four inches taller and three stone heavier than himself, Doyle went. Having recognised the newcomer by sight, if not name, Doyle had convinced himself that this was an elaborate leg-pull staged by someone with a warped sense of humour. His list of suspects was lengthy. Ushered into one of the small, windowless interrogation rooms which was bare save for two moulded-plastic chairs and a table, the walls painted a shade of institutional green, Doyle sighed.

"Take a seat, please. You claim to be Ray Doyle. Do you have any other means of identification?" Courteous but watchful, the newcomer won Doyle's grudging approval, despite his growing annoyance; he had forgotten how uncomfortable handcuffs were.

"My driving licence and other papers are in my top left inside pocket, along with my wallet. Could you hurry up, I'm due to begin a lecture in the film theatre in ten minutes."

His papers having been examined in meticulous detail, Doyle waited for the smile which never came.

"How did you come by these documents?" 

"OK, that's it. Who's the Duty Officer of the day?" 

"I am. Your name, sir?" 

"Ray Doyle. The bloke in the photo."

"Perhaps you'd care to take a closer look." 

Doyle dutifully studied the photograph. "It's me all right." His decisiveness had an unsettling effect on the younger man.

"Is there anyone in the building who can verify your claim?" 

"Almost anyone who's around. I would have expected you two to be able to for starters. Fisher, isn't it? Joined up at the end of June. You're new to me," he added to Harry. "You must be one of the new intake - Parkinson or Savage?" 

"Savage." He lacked the experience to hide his surprise as he glanced at Fisher.

Doyle made a mental note of the perfect chance for attack they had just presented him with.

"The fact remains that neither of us recognises you," said Fisher. "Can you suggest someone who can come down to identify you?" 

"Bodie, Jax, Murphy, Stuart - Cowley if you must," recited Doyle, listing the names in the order whose owners would embarrass him the least.

"That should be enough to choose from. If you'll make yourself comfortable."

"I'd like to. The cuffs?" 

"Stay on. We won't keep you for long."

Left with nothing to do but stare at the wall when they left, Doyle sat. If he appeared in the corridor wearing handcuffs he make himself the laughing stock, quite apart from the fact he trusted neither man's reactions, never having seen them in action. The door was flung open without ceremony before he had the chance to become too bored.

"Afternoon, sir," said Doyle brightly, his heart sinking when he recognised the expression on Cowley's face. 

"This is Doyle," confirmed the Scot with no great enthusiasm. "Key?" Deftly unlocking the handcuffs, Cowley tossed them to Savage. "I'll take those," he added, relieving Fisher of Doyle's personal documents and identification card. "You did well. That's all." He had turned back to Doyle before they left the room. "No doubt you have an explanation for your behaviour."

"Me?" said Doyle in outrage.

Cowley tossed Doyle's identity card over. "The photograph, man."

"Don't you start," sighed Doyle, giving it a cursory glance as he tucked his sunglasses away.

His amusement well-hidden, appreciating by this time that Doyle had no idea what was wrong, Cowley gestured to the door. "Come with me."

Mystified as Cowley led him into the men's toilet, Doyle made no attempt to approach the urinal. "I went before I left home, thank you." He wondered with mild hysteria if Cowley was going to make a pass at him. The souring of the older man's expression suggested Cowley had read the thought.

"Don't be facetious. Look in the mirror."

None the wiser, Doyle looked. There were no obscene messages scrawled on it and the glass failed to crack. "'Mirror, mirror on the wall...'"

Cowley made a sharp sound of impatience. "If you're supposed to be one of my best men it doesn't say much for the rest, does it? Correct me if I'm wrong but yesterday you had straight hair and a beard."

Comprehension dawning, a sunny smile spread over Doyle's face. "No, I shaved off the beard Saturday night. You didn't notice either."

Cowley's glare had silenced worthier adversaries than Ray Doyle. "Do you imagine my staff have nothing better to do than keep track of your tonsorial changes?" 

"Oh, the hair. I had the perm done this morning," explained Doyle, beginning to feel self-conscious under Cowley's encompassing survey.

"So I see." Cowley knew his position had been weakened by his failure to register Doyle's lack of beard the previous morning. It had taken him a moment to appreciate why Fisher and Savage should have failed to recognise Doyle from his photograph because he seemed so familiar in his present guise. Sunny-tempered and very much at his ease, Doyle was more relaxed than Cowley had seen him for a long time. Having spent the morning in a contented-looking Bodie's company, Cowley had no desire to speculate on whether the two facts were connected until the matter should be forced on his attention. "You'll appreciate that the shave and - er - perm make a substantial difference to your appearance - particularly for those who missed the privilege of knowing you when you were on the Squad."

The sarcasm by-passed Doyle, who was squinting at his reflection. "I didn't think it did," he said, wondering if the change of hairstyle had been a mistake. But, while he had never said so, Bodie seemed to miss the curls. More to the point, his hair having reached the length where it would require constant trimming if he wanted to see from beneath it, Doyle had taken the line of least resistance.

"It makes a difference," replied Cowley dryly. "Next time you intend to go in for such a wholesale change of style, kindly notify security first. I've better things to do with my time than waste any of it keeping track of your whims. Clear?" 

While of the view that a great deal of fuss was being made over very little, Doyle gave an obedient nod. "Is that all, sir? Only I was due to start a lecture in the film theatre twenty minutes ago."

"To whom?" 

"Three of the new intake as of a week ago, plus two from the last batch," Doyle reminded him, his expression reproachful.

"Ah, yes. You'll survive," Cowley told him unsympathetically. "You'll find several others there. With this current lull there's no point in them sitting around twiddling their thumbs."

"Perhaps if you were to talk to them - share your expertise?" said Doyle, with more hope than expectation in the suggestion.

Cowley simply looked at him.

"It was just a thought," said Doyle weakly.

"Not one of your best. I have every confidence in your ability to cope."

"So do I. But...they're so bloody earnest."

"That's one accusation that can't be laid at your door - or Bodie's. Fisher had you in cuffs - is your arm all right?" added Cowley with gruff concern.

Doyle gave him a wary look. "Fine."

"Och, you're getting as suspicious as me. I thought you had a lecture to give?"

"I'm going, I'm going."

"And don't forget to change the photograph in your ID," Cowley called after him, lingering to make use of the facilities. 

 

In need of sustenance after a morning with Cowley, Bodie ate a late lunch and unable to work up any enthusiasm for the paperwork awaiting him, looked round for a suitable diversion. Learning from Betty that Doyle would be entertaining some of the new intake with a session on combatting terrorism, Bodie gave a delighted grin and headed for the film theatre.

Quietly making himself comfortable in the empty back row, his eyes swiftly adjusting to the dim lighting, Bodie found himself only a couple of yards away from the unholy alliance of Lisa, Burrows and Brown. Looking forward to whatever gems they might let slip on this occasion, Bodie settled down to enjoy himself.

Listening to the sounds of discontent, discreetly voiced by the new intake and pungently expressed by longer established Squad members, Bodie realised that Doyle was late. Wondering if he had overslept, Bodie gave a contented grin, more than happy to take the blame for wearing him out. The door at the side of the screen banging open cut through the hubbub of sound. As Doyle strode in, Compson and Brown were amongst the first on their feet, their automatics trained on Doyle.

"That's far enough!" snapped Compson.

Looking across the sea of inimical faces Doyle saw Bodie in the back row and relaxed infinitesimally before his gaze returned to Compson and the Smith & Wesson levelled at his heart.

"If this is someone's idea of a joke they'll notice I'm not laughing. If you don't put those away you'll find them being tucked somewhere painful. You, too, Brown. I'm already late and we've got too much to get through to waste time."

The murmuring which had started the moment Doyle began to speak had faded, the air of relaxation almost palpable as people resumed their seats. Frowning slightly, Bodie wondered if he had missed something but the small scene hadn't looked like a set up.

His glare having silenced the whisperers, Doyle launched into speech without further ado, wholly at his ease in front of an audience by now. Not a static talker, he prowled around the auditorium, his energy evident and commanding attention. In this instance it added to rather than detracted from his subject matter as he ensured that everyone was drawn into the discussion.

He's firing on all cylinders today, recognised Bodie, his eyes appreciatively following Doyle's buttocks and groin as they drifted in and out of his immediate line of vision. It was some time before Bodie became aware of the conversation taking place in front of him whilst Doyle's attention was engaged by a group at the front of the auditorium.

"...anything so gorgeous in my life. Or not for a couple of weeks, anyway. No wonder we didn't recognise him. Will you look at that backside."

"It's the same one Doyle had last week," pointed out Brown, yet to recover from being made to feel a fool.

"Then he must have been taking vitamin pills over the weekend. The Ice Man has turned into a walking invitation to sex. I can understand what all the fuss was about now," Lisa added.

Oblivious to Bodie nodding his agreement, Brown shot her a look of disbelief. "Ray Doyle? I think you've lost your mind."

"Ssh, I'm enjoying the view."

"I knew I shouldn't have bought you that glass of wine at lunch."

"Why, should I have framed it?" she asked innocently.

"Are you seriously interested in Doyle?" Brown's exasperation was clearly audible to the avidly listening Bodie and his grin widened, recognising sour grapes when he heard them.

"Are you jealous?" 

"Of that? Do me a favour," scoffed Brown, immediately on the retreat. "What d'you reckon, Andy? I say that if Doyle's the most competition we have to worry about we're home and dry." He had to lean over Lisa to give Burrows a hard prod, the other man's attention far away. 

"Sure," replied Burrows absently, shifting in his seat.

He sounded so unlike himself that Bodie gave him a sharp glance, wondering if Burrows was sickening for something. The younger man's attention fixed on Doyle, Bodie decided to follow his example. It was no hardship; in Bodie's view Lisa had summed Doyle up quite nicely. There was no denying that he looked...fuckable. To judge from the fit of those jeans the effects of Doyle's over-indulgence of lasagne had worn off. Busy speculating on whether Doyle was wearing anything but skin beneath them, Bodie lost the thread of the talk altogether when Doyle paused only two rows in front of him, responding to a question from Brown. Buttocks propped on a vacant seat back, his outflung palms supporting his weight, the deliciously defined outline of Doyle's genitals drew the eye like a magnet.

Bodie drifted in a happy, lust-filled haze. Aware of his massive hard-on, he was grateful for the poor lighting as he tried to concentrate on the spirited argument which ensued when Doyle threw questions back out into the audience, refusing to do their work for them. 

It took Bodie some time to realise that while Burrows was concentrating on Doyle, if he heard one word in ten it was only by accident. Puzzled, Bodie switched his attention to Burrows's unguarded face, experiencing a strong sense of deja vu as he recognised the mixture of raw lust and naked yearning on the younger man's face, Burrows seeming to have forgotten the control expected of an adult as Doyle grinned at something Nathanson said. Supremely confident and moving with the easy grace of an athlete in complete command of his body, Doyle was exuding sex like a scent.

Oh, you've got it bad, my son, recognised Bodie with a trace of sympathy as he saw Burrows's shell-shocked expression. And it won't get any easier. Looking is all you'll get from this one. Quite apart from the fact he's spoken for, the odds are Ray won't even notice - unless you come straight out and proposition him. And I wouldn't recommend that if you enjoy living.

If anyone had told Bodie he would feel sorry for Andrew Burrows he would have laughed. But watching the confused yearning nakedly exposed on his face for the world to see Bodie felt it happen. Poor bastard looks like he's been pole-axed - as if he's never got it up at the sight of a fella before. Maybe he hasn't. It happened to me like that, why not him? A swift mental review of Burrows's file enough to confirm that his sexual proclivities were stated to be heterosexual, Bodie frowned.

If Burrows had experienced his dazzling revelation only when Doyle bounced into the room it wasn't surprising that he seemed to be in a state of mild shock. Not the right time, place or person. But if he doesn't stop following Ray with his gonads in his eyes someone else will notice. While Bodie wasn't overly fond of Burrows he wouldn't wish that fate on him.

The bite in Doyle's voice when he failed to gain any response from Burrows drew Bodie from his abstraction. Listening to Burrows's stammered, inept reply he willed his lover to ease up.

"What's wrong with you today, Andy?" hissed Lisa the moment Doyle's attention moved elsewhere. "Are you feeling all right?" 

Bodie frowned when he saw the effort it took Burrows to reply. "Fine. Why?" 

"You won't be if you try that on with Doyle again. You should have been able to answer that, you've certainly been listening to him closely enough."

"Perhaps you should follow Burrows's example and do the same thing," remarked Bodie, instinct sending him to Burrows's rescue. He could remember all too vividly how it felt when it seemed your every emotion was on display and at the mercy of heedless workmates.

His intervention made Lisa jump, Brown grin and Doyle break off what he had been saying to complain about the interruption. "Though I should have guessed it would be you. As you've obviously got nothing better to do you may as well make yourself useful. Kate nobbled me on my way here, she has some questionnaires she wants tested. We'll split into two teams to speed things up. I'll take - "

"These three are mine," interrupted Bodie, gesturing in front of him, "plus - " He selected the three others closest to him. "And if it's a competition we've already won it."

The derisive comments his claim provoked from those in Doyle's team drew everyone's attention, as Bodie had intended, to himself. For the next hour or so he found himself too busy to speculate further about what he had seen, although he took care to ensure that Burrows was too involved to spare a glance for the oblivious man on the other side of the auditorium.

"A multiple choice test card," groaned Brown with disgust as Bodie produced the last selection from the fat wallet Doyle had tossed him. "It's worse than being back at school. You'll be giving out gold stars next."

"If it makes you happy to think so. Ray and I aren't enjoying this any more than you are but Kate proposes, we disposes." Ignoring the groans, Bodie added, "Stop moaning and start ticking boxes. Ready? Never mind, I'll start anyway."

Having noticed Burrows's expression of frozen disbelief after he had taken his group through the categories of desirable responses, Bodie surprised himself again. "OK, now you've proved how stable and brilliant you are, tear them up."

"Tear them up?" echoed Lisa, her manner betraying the fact she must have done well.

"That's right," confirmed Bodie cheerfully. "I don't intend to hang them on my wall and I'm bloody certain Kate won't want them on hers."

"But I scored ninety-three per cent," said Miles blankly, his youthful, freckled face the bane of his life.

"I shouldn't boast about it," Bodie advised him. "It's never wise to excel for Kate. She likes nice mean averages. Besides, there's no point in you scoring brilliantly here if you get your head blown off the first time you step out into the real world."

"But Doyle's team will win," protested Miles.

With a mental prayer for patience Bodie took a deep breath. "Would you care to bet on that?" 

"Don't take him up on it," Brown warned. "He knows Doyle better than we do."

"Not just Doyle, any of the older Squad members. I know how they'll react, their strengths, weaknesses... Sometimes it's only that knowledge which has kept us alive to tell the tale."

Brown gave a theatrical groan and mimed falling asleep.

"Quiet you," grinned Bodie as he took in the remaining cards and tore them through without glancing at them, aware of Burrows's look of relief. "Contrary to popular belief I don't pretend to know it all - just most of it. Apart from the unholy alliance on my left no one here has been on strength for more than three months. Miles, are you going to tell me it's been easy?" 

"Well, no, but - "

"Forget the justifications. You know Ray and I have been keeping an eye on you. Potentially there are some of the best agents the Squad's ever had in this room. Potentially. But you've got an attitude problem. Stop competing so hard with each other. The only acceptable 'them and us' on the Squad is us versus the world. You need to learn to trust and rely on each other. There isn't one teaming between you. You know why? Because none of us are convinced you wouldn't get your partner killed within the first month. Working solo is fine, but there are times when half the Squad will be engaged on the same operation. You might need to trust any one of them with your life. To do that you need to know 'em. No one's asking you to like them, just to know them."

"What's so wonderful about being teamed?" demanded Lisa, obviously unimpressed.

"A bright girl like you should be able to work it out. One important factor is support - not just when it's going down on the street but afterwards. It's handy having someone else to blame for your cock-ups, too. And making your tea, of course. Your partner is the most solid back up there is - including Cowley. And I don't just mean the physical kind. Everyone makes mistakes - "

"Even you?" interrupted Brown sceptically.

"A few," Bodie conceded.

Sounds of protest distracted Miles. "Doyle's team have just dumped their cards."

Brown gave him a pitying look. "What did you expect? Don't interrupt. Bodie was just going to tell us about all the mistakes he's made." His healthy respect for Bodie's track record well hidden, he gave a wolfish smile of anticipation.

"First you have to earn it," Bodie told him placidly.

"They could always bribe me," said Doyle, coming up behind him.

"Get out of here, they're your mistakes we're talking about. Doyle and I were teamed for over five years," Bodie added for the benefit of the mystified Miles.

Vaulting neatly over a row of seats to join them, Doyle perched on the back of a seat, bumping Bodie's shoulder harder than was strictly necessary to gain himself room.

"You make it sound like Happy Families," said Brown acidly.

"There's no risk of that with you around," retorted Doyle. "Stop moaning and bugger off to the pub before Cowley nobbles you. I've had enough for one afternoon. Oy, Joe! Before you go, what was all that about when I came in?" 

"We thought we'd give you a surprise," mumbled Brown without conviction, a pause for inspiration having failed him.

"A coronary was more like it. The way people got to their feet I thought you'd finally seen the error of your ways and decided to treat your betters with the respect I deserve."

"Elders, maybe," said Lisa.

Doyle's smile widened. "You'll regret that come assessment time."

"You're going to be running the course?" 

"Wait and see. Be something for you to look forward to. Joe! Back you come, mate. You still haven't told me what your performance earlier was in aid of."

"No, you haven't, have you," murmured Lisa, her expectant smile one of innocence personified.

Brown's glare promised retribution at a future date as he tried to think of a face-saving explanation.

It was Burrows who came to his rescue. "No one recognised you with that wig and a shave. We thought Cowley was testing our reaction times again - until we heard your dulcet tones, of course."

"Wig!" said Doyle in mock outrage.

"You mean the change was voluntary?" 

Listening to the amicable exchange of insults being bandied about by those who remained, Bodie sat back, mentally applauding Burrows's guts. The younger man had himself well in hand now, giving as good as he got and paying Doyle no more or less attention than anyone else.

"Alone at last," sighed Doyle as Burrows and Lisa dragged an embarrassed Joe Brown off to the pub. "Still, they're not a bad bunch. And from what I've seen of them, Cowley got a bargain with the most recent intake."

"I've known worse," Bodie allowed. "Green, mind. I quite enjoyed this afternoon."

"I could tell. That was a nice pep talk you gave them."

Bodie shot him a side on glance. "You heard?" 

"So I was eavesdropping. It needed to be said and you..." Doyle's voice faded to an indistinct mumble.

"What was that? Why've you gone all embarrassed-looking?" 

"I have not."

"Then what was it you said?" 

"That it made me feel bloody proud to have been your partner," snapped Doyle, getting to his feet.

Bodie gave the straight back presented to him an affectionate grin. "Must be getting soft in your old age. It was no more than the truth. They need to understand how good it can be. You were the best. Still are, come to that. Strewth, I'm getting as maudlin as you."

"Might have guessed it would be my fault," returned Doyle but he was smiling. "We must find some time to have a chat with Jack about the training. It's not good enough. Assault courses are all very well but they only have a limited use in CI5."

"You always used to say that when I beat you," agreed Bodie. "But you're right, it is too service-orientated."

"Worry about it tomorrow," decided Doyle, collecting his folder. "I hope you're going to explain to Kate why she won't be getting her cards back."

"Me?" 

"Who tore 'em up? I'm not even going to ask why."

Wisely Bodie remained silent.

"I've been trying to work out what's wrong with Andy. He hardly said a thing all afternoon. Maybe I should have a word with him," Doyle added unenthusiastically, the role of Agony Aunt not his idea of a good time.

Grimacing, Bodie rubbed his nose and sank back onto a seat. "I should leave it for a day or two. He'll settle down."

"Yeah? What do you know that I don't?" 

"What makes you think I know anything?" 

"Experience. Come on, cough it up."  
"You have a lovely turn of phrase," said Bodie, mentally selecting and rejecting suitable introductions. He opted for the bald approach. "I think Andy's just discovered he fancies men."

"So? Oh. Yeah, I see what you're getting at. It can be a bit disconcerting at first," Doyle allowed, his unconscious smile reassuring Bodie more than an hour's conversation on the topic. "How do you know?" 

"I was watching him," admitted Bodie with some reluctance. "He looked like he'd been pole-axed."

"You mean he only realised this afternoon? No wonder he was off-form. Hang on, that means it's someone in the group. Who?" 

Aware that he should have been able to predict this question, Bodie wriggled down in his seat, unwilling to betray Burrows because he was by no means certain how Doyle would take the news.

"You! He fancies you?" crowed Doyle with delight.

"Will you keep your voice down. No, it isn't me."

"In that case he's welcome to take his pick." Alerted by something in Bodie's manner, Doyle's expression sharpened. "You've got that look."

"What look?" Bodie tried not to appear self-conscious.

"The one which means you think you've got away with something. If it isn't you he fancies, who's likely to make you look this shifty?" 

"How about having that drink now?" 

Deep in thought, Doyle was deaf to the suggestion. "It's me, isn't it?" 

"What's so terrible about that?" said Bodie bracingly. "People have been known to fancy you. I do myself. Does it bother you?" 

"Hardly."

"I meant Andy. Stop being so aggravating. You're never embarrassed?" Bodie failed to subdue his look of delight.

"Of course I'm not. It never occurred to me, that's all. Dunno why. Like you said, I'm irresistible."

"I didn't say that."

"Close."

"You could be right. But then you always claim I have horrible taste."

"Thanks a bundle. I could always keep Andy in reserve for a toy boy to brighten my declining years."

"He must be all of ten years younger than you."

Doyle's grin faded. "Blimey, you meant it - about him fancying me. And there's no need to glare at me like that," he added with asperity. "I'm not planning to beat him up - or eat him."

"That's a relief," said Bodie, more acid in his tone than he intended.

His mind elsewhere, Doyle patted him on the thigh. "I can see why you're bothered. I hope it wears off as fast as it arrived."

Loving Doyle very much for his look of worried intensity Bodie propped himself against the wall. "Why? In particular, I mean."

"It's no fun living with your balls in knots, lusting after someone you're never going to have. But why now?" 

"It's probably got something to do with the fact you came in looking like a walking wet dream. Lisa was almost drooling over your bum."

"Yeah?" said Doyle with a spark of interest. "It's nice to be appreciated, just so long as I'm not expected to deliver. I reckon it's a put on."

"No."

Disconcerted, Doyle stared at his feet. "When you're desperate enough anything vaguely human can be a turn on."

"True. But it's more than that. You admitted you'd been tempted recently," Bodie added unexpectedly. "Who took your fancy?" 

"Lisa," Doyle admitted. "And Burrows. He reminds me of you."

"Don't you start."

"Eh?" 

"That's what Murph said."

"We can't both be wrong. It's probably no more than the fact you and Andy are both beautiful and - "

"I'm not!" denied Bodie hotly.

"Shut up, you. Not that you've got much but colouring in common. Your build is completely different. But he's got the same kind of certainty you've got - about himself, you know."

Raising his eyes heavenwards Bodie earned himself a thump on the shoulder. Doyle left his hand there, holding Bodie lightly. "I couldn't help but notice him - or Lisa. That's as far as it went."

Bodie's sombre expression vanished. "Me, too."

"You mean you - ?" 

"Not Burrows, the barman at the Hare and Hounds."

"Have to pop in there one night," said Doyle. "But I don't think we need to worry about Andy. Joe and Lisa will keep an eye on him. I wouldn't have believed it a fortnight ago but the way those three are shaping up they're going to be the first official triad on the Squad."

"The rules only allow for solo working or partners."

"Rules are made to be broken. We should know."

"You haven't asked me," said Bodie quietly, ignoring what Doyle had just said.

"What?" 

"If I'd done more than look."

Untroubled, Doyle shook his head. "I didn't need to. If you had you wouldn't have laughed."

Taken aback, it took Bodie a moment to recover his composure. "Sometimes I forget how well you can read me."

"What about the times I get it wrong?" 

"A man's got to keep a little mystery," joked Bodie, but his throat tightened, although he couldn't have said why.

"I know," agreed Doyle, taking him by surprise. "That was part of my trouble last time. I wanted all of you. It can't be done. I've learnt that much."

Slinging an arm around his shoulders, Bodie gave him a quick hug. "You're a possessive little sod. And no, I'm not complaining. Can't. It works two ways. We're getting a bit philosophical, aren't we."

"Light-headed from lack of food probably. I'm starving." Heading out of the theatre, Doyle paused. "Burrows's file doesn't say he's bi."

"There's a surprise. Nor do ours."

"You hope. We're not a security risk. Andy could be. If you're right and he's only just discovered the potential of the rest of his sex he could run wild trying to catch up on what he thinks he's been missing out on."

"And he could go home, ball his girlfriend and forget his yearnings. What can we do about it? I've no intention of trying to explain to Cowley that I've got a feeling that Burrows fancies you. Cowley might wonder how I recognise the look." Bodie viewed his companion's spreading grin with mistrust. "You wouldn't."

"You hope I wouldn't, you mean. Nah, I wouldn't. But it can't hurt to keep a discreet eye on Andy. If he decides to branch out he'll need to come clean to Cowley."

"Like we did?" 

Doyle treated that remark with the contempt it deserved. "You wouldn't like to have a friendly chat with Andy on the subject of sexual orientation, would you?" 

Bodie gave him a pitying look.

"That's what I thought," sighed Doyle. "D'you reckon any of them will have the wit to go to the Old Man if they're in trouble?" 

"Worry about it later. Right now all that interests me is food, a pint and you."

"Might have known I'd come last." 

They were heading out of the building when Fred, who was now on the security desk, called Doyle back. "Mr Cowley said to tell you that if you come in tomorrow without a new photo in your ID we get to lock you up and throw away the key."

"You'd do it, too," said Doyle bitterly. "I suppose you heard?" 

"Be fair. It's too good a story to keep quiet."

"You wait. I'll get my revenge. Why couldn't you have been on duty lunchtime."

"If it's any consolation Fisher and Savage are taking even more stick."

"It's not. Cheers, Fred."

"What was all that about?" asked Bodie, following Doyle back to the lift. "Why do you need a new photo? Hey up, you've had a - Oh." Lacing his fingers through familiar, springy curls, he gave a delighted grin.

"One word," Doyle warned him. "I've had enough comments about my appearance for one day. Any more and I cut it off again."

Bodie located the button which would ensure the lift doors remained closed. "You won't," he said confidently. "You look ... Tell you what, let's get your photo done, go home and fuck, eh?" 

"Silver tongue." Pushing Bodie's finger away from the button Doyle stalked out of the lift and down the corridor, turning only when he realised there was no one at his side. "I didn't say no, did I?" he called in exasperation.

Bodie's beam told him he had been set up again.


	14. Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

Having ruined the day of several informers, who had gratefully assumed that Bodie and Doyle were out of their lives for good, 6.30 Friday evening found both men stuck in a bad-tempered traffic jam in Deptford, watching pedestrians speed past them in the rain.

"I thought you knew south London like the back of your hand," remarked Bodie in mild complaint after the car had crawled a mere fifteen feet in ten minutes.

"So did I, but that was before the planners got busy and they brought in all these one-way systems. Look what they've done to it." Doyle gestured in disgust at the roadworks around them.

"Deptford never was what you could call scenic. On the other hand." Bodie nudged his partner as a delicious pair of legs sauntered into his line of vision.

"Very nice. Thank god for the Ra Ra skirt."

"We'll be dead of carbon-monoxide poisoning before closing time. Friday night, too," mourned Bodie, left with nothing to admire but black plastic sacks of rubbish.

"Not if I make a small detour to the nearest pub." Doyle signalled right and making an illegal U turn. "The only thing is, I gave Hoover my last ten quid."

"That figures. OK, I'm buying - and you're drinking soda water. Make it last."

"First of the big time spenders, you are," remarked Doyle, parking illegally on a double yellow line in the narrow side street.

"'S a lovely area," noted Bodie, stepping into refuse as he left the car. The rain did little to dispel the stink of rotting food.

"I think I'll skip the meal," remarked Doyle with a disdainful sniff, picking his way like a wary cat through the litter. "Alcohol kills ninety-nine per cent of all known germs, doesn't it?" 

Despite its unprepossessing exterior, what could be seen of the interior of the pub for the press of people seeking refuge from the rain was comfortable and reasonably clean, although the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of wet clothing. Thrusting a ten pound note in Doyle's hand, Bodie gave him a shove in the direction of the bar.

"You can get the drinks. A clean glass would be nice."

"Optimist." Doyle eyed the four-deep line of backs without enthusiasm. "What d'you want?" 

"A large malt. We could always look for another pub."

"It's all right, you don't let the tone of the place down," Doyle assured him, drifting away before Bodie could formulate a reply.

In no particular hurry, Doyle was content to wait his turn to be served. At this end of the bar a tired-looking woman and an acne-scarred youth moved between pumps, till and measures with none of the cheer propagated by soap operas. At the other less crowded end the barman, obviously on his well-timed rest break, stood chatting to a young couple. Doyle eased his way to that side of the crowd; the barman's pock-marked face was vaguely familiar. Habit led Doyle to tune in to the various conversations taking place around him until he could place the man.

"...surveyor's report. This is an up-and-coming area, you mark my words."

"...told him, cash upfront or you can whistle for your bloody motor."

"...Cowley's ever such a nice man. Always says hello when he sees me."

Doyle homed in on the owner of that voice with the precision of an Exocet to its target. She couldn't be more than seventeen at most, make-up obliterating any distinguishing features, her exuberantly-streaked blonde hair beginning to fluff out as it dried.

"That's as may be. I've 'eard abaht 'is sort. 'E's not, you know, givin' you any bovver?" demanded her companion aggressively, his narrow face still afflicted with the crimson splotches of adolescence.

"Give over, Gary. Got sex on the brain, you have." Her nudge nearly sent him flying. "I've told you and told you, Mr Cowley's a real gentleman. It's a shame he's never married, reely."

Doyle choked. Recovering, he found the tired-looking barmaid opposite him and placed his order, feeling in need of some fortification.

"It's great to hear someone enjoying their job like you do, Tracey," remarked the barman with approval. "It must be quite something to hear the news before it gets on telly."

Under Doyle's fascinated eye the girl simpered. "I'll say. Mum's ever so pleased. She's always said that the way to get on in this life is to show an interest in your work. The job's dead interesting. Always something going on. But you know me. I like to be doing. Isn't that right, Gary?" 

Her companion grunted into the dregs of his pint and hunched his bony shoulders. "I dunno why you bovver," he said in a disillusioned tone.

"I want a career, not a job," declaimed Tracy. "There are ever so many important people around CI5."

"You ain't mentioned any of 'em to me. Like who?" said Gary sceptically.

"That would be tellin'." Her knowing tone was guaranteed to irritate a saint.

"'Cos there ain't any," jeered Gary.

"There are so. Politicians and stuff. And CI5 are always guarding people. No one reely interesting, mind. There's a sheik to look after tomorrow."

""Of Arabee, I suppose," sniffed Gary.

"Yes, clever clogs. Well, somewhere out that way at any rate. What was his name now?" Her young face scrunched with the effort of concentration.

"That's the trouble with these foreign names," said the barman knowledgeably. "They all sound the same."

"Not this one. El Racker, that's it. Or somefink like that. I can't do accents as well as what Mr Cowley can."

"You and your precious Mr Cowley. I'm sick of hearin' about 'im." Gary slammed his pint glass on the bar and pushed through the crowd in the direction of the gents.

"Never mind him, love," consoled the barman kindly. "You're doing the right thing takin' an interest the way you do. Gary will come round. Be better if he could find a job he enjoyed." He leered at her partially exposed plump young breasts.

"I know," agreed Tracey with a hint of complacency, tugging half-heartedly at her tight denim skirt, which had been rucked up by the bar stool.

"That's the spirit, girl. So you're meeting this sheik tomorrow, are you?" 

"Not personally," she admitted with obvious reluctance. "There's this do for him at Leeds Castle. All the top nobs are going. Maybe I'll get to one of them dos some day," she added wistfully, her sights set on meeting Princess Di who she thought was ever so lovely.

His own glass empty, Doyle drained Bodie's in two gulps, having heard all he needed to. Cowley's mole was Tracey Stedman, the office junior CI5 employed against all Cowley's protests. Tracey who had somehow heard of the top-secret meeting in Kent and was happily spreading the news around half south London - aided by the barman, whose leading questions made his interest obvious.

Gary reappeared, truculently ordering himself another pint. "An' a babycham for 'er - if she's still wiv me."

As the barman turned away to fill the orders Doyle put a name to him. Denis Peters, no known form but an associate of half the villains south of Watford. If there was a buyer Denis would find something to sell him. There was always a ready market for information - the Press the last resort. With Tracey out to impress everyone with her new career and her mouth an ever open door through which information flowed... A quick glance was enough to bring Bodie to his side.

"I thought we could prop up the bar," Doyle said casually as Bodie stared accusingly at the empty glass, which was all that remained of his drink. An infinitesimal nod to a spot behind that which Bodie occupied was enough to tell Bodie why they were here.

Tracey was obviously devoting the evening to convincing her companions about her contribution to the running of CI5. While she didn't actually claim to be Cowley's personal assistant it was obvious from what she said that he didn't make many decisions without consulting her.

"I don't believe it," muttered Bodie weakly, yet to notice the fresh drink Doyle had placed in his hand. "It can't be this simple."

"No? The powers that be at Whitehall obviously never allowed for a school leaver who would heed her mum's advice to take an interest. That's Denis Peters egging her on," Doyle added in an undertone which carried no farther than Bodie. "Get Control to send a team over. We'll want tails for Denis and Gary, plus taps on the private and public phones. Tell Cowley we're bringing Tracey in. We'll need velvet gloves for this kid. She's not just green, she's - "

"Thick," said Bodie unkindly, having realised they could whistle their free weekend goodbye.

"Naive," corrected Doyle, grinning at the look that elicited.

"I'll nip out to the car. How do we bring our little songbird in without her outraged mum descending on us?" 

"Leave it to me. She's so full of team spirit it's painful - we may as well make it work for us. We'll be out in five minutes," murmured Doyle.

"Hello. Tracey, isn't it? I don't think we've been introduced but I've seen you around Headquarters." Doyle allowed his gaze to roam with open appreciation over her youthful and amply-displayed charms. "'Scuse me for butting in," he added to Gary, whose belligerent glare made it obvious he was practised in fending off possible contenders for Tracey's favours. "I'm Ray Doyle. My partner Bodie has just gone out to the car. We work with Tracey here. Isn't that right, love?" 

Highly flattered at receiving public recognition from one of Mr Cowley's deputies, Tracey gave such an enthusiastic nod that everything from her earrings downwards jiggled. "Is it about work - your call?" Her stage whisper probably carried out to the high street.

"You guessed it. It's a bit of luck, us spotting you like this. There's a rush on back at HQ. We've just been called in," Doyle lied glibly, realising he needed to account for the glass he was holding. "Cowley asked us to try and get all the best people back to lend a hand. I know it's asking a lot, but if you could...?" 

"Mr Cowley asked for me?" squeaked Tracey, casting a triumphant glance at Gary.

"If you can spare the time." Doyle began to feel very old in the face of all this enthusiasm.

"Course. Gary and me had nothing special planned for tonight, did we?" 

"Not wiv your mum not goin' to Bingo like normal, no," said Gary sourly.

Swallowing his grin, Doyle gave Gary a sympathetic look, remembering that sense of frustration vividly for all that he had left home more than twenty years ago. "That's great. Bodie and I will give you a lift back - and of course we'll see to it that you're taken home. You might be working till late," he warned.

"Never let it be said that Tracey Stedman doesn't pull her weight in a crisis. Will you be using the siren?" 

Placing every faith in Bodie to have one in the car, Doyle nodded.

"Great," Tracey sighed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Is there time for me to ring me mum to tell her I'll be late?" 

Doyle gave her a handful of change from Bodie's ten pounds and bought Gary another pint, wanting to ensure he stayed put until his tail arrived.

The drive back to CI5 was enlivened by Tracey's enthusiastic recital of how much she was enjoying her job. Little prompting was needed to elicit a relentless stream of confidences, which made it clear how she had gained access to potentially sensitive material. Given a sixteen-year old school leaver with no work experience or qualifications save her willingness to please, Mrs Thomas, the head of the administrative staff, had given Tracey what should have proved to be innocuous tasks such as taking the post, facsimiles and messages around the building, making the coffee, photocopying and occasionally shredding documents ready for incineration. Unfortunately no one had considered that Tracey might have ambitions beyond those of a dog's body. She had taken her mother's exhortations to take an interest in her job seriously. The tasks she had been allocated took her everywhere from the Administrative Section to medical, photographic and the computer centre, even to Cowley's office on occasion. Wherever she went, Tracey listened, watched and read everything that fell into her hands unsealed in her determination to prove herself.

Bodie vanished into the operations rooms to reschedule security arrangements for the sheik's visit while Doyle explained the situation to Jax in four pithy sentences. He left Jax to manufacture some suitably urgent task to allay Tracey's suspicions - although Doyle was convinced that she trust was such that she would have waved Philby onto the plane for Moscow without a qualm. 

Having forgotten that Cowley was not due back from Manchester for another hour Doyle went to help Bodie coordinate the security operation. Losing the toss, which he was convinced Bodie had rigged, Doyle was left with the task of breaking the news to Cowley upon the Scot's return to Headquarters.

Cowley did not attempt to interrupt his report, although he did pour and down a large glass of Glenfiddich, before pouring himself another.

"Tomorrow's conference?" he asked finally, his expression giving nothing away.

"All taken care of, sir."

"Oh good," said Cowley ironically. "Perhaps you would care to fill me in on what you've planned."

"Leeds Castle will continue to be guarded as if nothing has changed. We've abandoned the back-up place in Berkshire, Tracey might have read something about it. We've sent four teams headed by Murphy and Stuart over to Magincote House in the chopper. They'll check the place from foundations to roof tiles. Three other teams are on their way by car. The sheik's flight will be diverted to the RAF base five miles from the house - he's due to arrive at 8.45 tomorrow morning. There's a tail on Denis Peters, another on Tracey's boyfriend, although I'm ninety-nine per cent convinced he's clean. Anson's heading that side of the op. Denis's phone is tapped and his motor bugged. We'll nab him once he's made a sale - we should get an interesting haul considering what he has to sell. We could even try and charge him under the Official Secrets Act," added Doyle brightly.

"That's all?" 

"Apart from the fact the Foreign Office will be spinning like a top all night, everything's under control."

"Control?" echoed Cowley bitterly.

"It's no wonder we couldn't spot the source of the leaks," said Doyle with sympathy, although he had yet to mellow to the point where he hid his grin. "No discernible pattern because everything depended on what Tracey had read, seen or heard in a given day, and when she went to the pub. When I mentioned security she assured me she knew everything was hush-hush and that she wouldn't dream of saying a word to anyone. The sad part is she means it. Trouble is anyone excludes her family and friends. Denis obviously made enough fuss of her for Tracey to want to keep going back to The Ravens. All in all it's lucky we got caught in that traffic jam," added Doyle wryly, aware that only serendipity had kept them from a bloodbath, the sheik a target for at least four terrorist groups.

"Lucky!" exploded Cowley, who had been on a slow burn for the last ten minutes. It took him some time to vent his spleen on the safe and trusted target of Doyle. For once Doyle took it, emulating Bodie and waiting in a stoic silence for the storm to pass.

"Och, pour yourself a drink," Cowley said at last, gesturing irritably to the bottle on his desk. "I shouldn't have to remind you that this is no laughing matter. I told Whitehall that their precious scheme wouldn't work and they cited the success rate Special Branch has with school leavers. Special Branch," he repeated with scorn, his accent more pronounced, as it always was when he was angry.

"You'll enjoy telling the Home Secretary I told you so, then."

"You're damn right I will. Better still, I'll let you and Bodie do it. The Minister is at a banquet until midnight or so. I've an appointment with him at twelve-thirty."

While he grimaced, Doyle made no demur. "What about Tracey, sir? Do you want to question her yourself - charge her or what?" 

"Charging a young girl under the Official Secrets Act would make a wonderful headline for the tabloids. There's been enough laughter at CI5's expense."

"Then what are we going to do with her?" A beatific smile spread across Doyle's face. "You could always get her transferred to MI5."

"It's tempting," Cowley allowed, taking a calming sip of whisky," but not very practical. Mrs Thomas gave the girl a good reference, you say?" 

"Glowing. There again she finds Tracey's enthusiasm so wearing she'd say anything if she thought it would get the girl out of her life. She hasn't got a clue what Tracey's been doing, of course."

"You're sure?" 

"Enough to stake my pension on it," replied Doyle promptly. "She did her best to give Tracey innocuous enough work but that's none too easy in our business. Incidentally, Tracey heard about the sheik while she was in the ops. room. A couple of the new lads sweet-talked her into going out to buy them sandwiches. While she was delivering them Murphy was on the phone. Not noticing Tracey, he started briefing his team. No one's fault."

"I hardly think Murphy needs you to cover for him."

"It isn't a question of doing anything but telling the truth."

"Och, take that look off your face, I know that. I'll see we all learn from the experience. Now, about Tracey. I see little value in taking her to task for what she's done."

"You'd be old and grey by the time you got through to her," Doyle agreed. "And short of sticking her in the Tower, the first thing she'd do is spread the news around south London."

"Quite. She'll undoubtedly benefit from a change of career."

"The Home Office?" 

"This Home Secretary is brighter than most. No. But perhaps the Department of Social Security. They're accustomed to chaos. I'll arrange that. What time is it? Good. Just time for me to see Tracey and tell her the good news. I want her taken home before she causes any more trouble. Where do you think you're going?" Cowley added as, once outside his office, Doyle showed every sign of disappearing in the opposite direction.

"I thought you'd rather see her alone."

"You'll be disappointed, then."

Doyle's gravity was further threatened as he listened to a nauseatingly avuncular Cowley talking to Tracey. Flattered by the unexpected attention, she blossomed to the point where she was in danger of giving the Scot her entire life history. She took the news of her immediate change of job happily enough once she understood that it was a sideways transfer with better career prospects. Hearing the creaking gallantry with which Cowley went on to assure her that he didn't expect a pretty young thing like her to be working all her life, Bodie's arrival saved Doyle from disgrace as he choked back his laughter. Within five minutes the three men were off to Whitehall in Cowley's car, the luckless Jax given the task of driving Tracey home once she had cleared her belongings from her desk.

In the event the Home Secretary smoothly detached Cowley from his cohorts, leaving Bodie and Doyle to make CI5's views known to the Under-Secretary. After an enjoyable thirty minutes straightening out the Civil Service, Bodie and Doyle emerged to find Cowley and the Home Secretary in the hallway. In an affable mood after a very liquid dinner, the Home Secretary decided to engage them in conversation.

"And what did you make of Sir Havelock?" he asked Doyle, the pleasantries disposed of.

Cowley could have told him that invitation was a mistake, but still furious at what he regarded as bureaucratic impertinence on the part of the Home Office on insisting it knew what was best for CI5, he made no attempt to intervene.

"Not a lot. Sir," added Doyle in a very obvious after-thought. It was ten past one in the morning and he had been hungry six hours ago.

"Really? Why is that?" 

"I think it has something to do with the fact I'm not convinced he could count up to twenty-one even if he was naked."

It took a moment for the inference to sink in, Cowley's glare and the Home Secretary's murmured," Quite," causing Bodie to choke and melt into the shadows, an appreciative grin on his face. But Doyle's remark had the merit of speeding the Home Secretary on his way, although he paused by the open door of his limousine to say," You really are annoyed with me, aren't you, George? Now you've had your revenge may I go home? I imagine I shall have an outraged Sir Havelock in my office first thing tomorrow morning so I shall need a good night's sleep. But I promise you that I shall personally consider your plans. We were fortunate that the consequences weren't a great deal more severe."

"Thank you, Sir Charles."

"Poor George," said the Home Secretary with gentle malice. "What a trying time you've had. Mr Doyle, Mr Bodie, goodnight, gentlemen."

"That's the first time I've ever heard a Home Secretary talk about we and trouble in the same breath," remarked Bodie when they were alone.

Cowley rounded on the pair of them. "My only consolation is that if Doyle hadn't said what he did, you would have done," he told Bodie. "Consider yourselves damn lucky he'd had the better part of a bottle of Cockburns '56 inside him. He's not bad - for a politician."

From Cowley that was high praise indeed. Doyle muttered something which could have been taken for an apology by the optimistic.

"I take it you were in similar form with Sir Havelock?" 

"We made CI5's views clear," confirmed Bodie.

Cowley gave a grim smile. "I would have enjoyed hearing that. Accident or not, you did well tonight. I'm grateful. Take the morning off."

"What's happened to the rest of our free weekend?" asked Doyle, who was still in a truculent mood.

"I just cancelled it. Can I give you a lift home?" 

"No, thank you, sir, we'll walk," said Bodie hastily. "Night."

The moment Cowley's tail lights disappeared Bodie hailed a taxi. Mindful of the driver, their conversation was restricted to trivialities. Full of joie de vivre, Bodie didn't notice that he was the one doing most of the talking.

"We've cracked it! We've found the mole. No more paperwork," he exclaimed gleefully, pushing Doyle into the hall. 

Only when he turned from attending to the security locks did Bodie realise Doyle's good mood had evaporated. "You might manage some enthusiasm," he complained, pinning his unresisting companion against the wall with the weight of his body. 

Grimacing, Doyle absently cupped Bodie's buttocks, pulling him even closer, but it was obvious his attention was elsewhere. "I might if it wasn't for the fact it's taken us all this time to fall over the truth. It was sheer luck we went to The Ravens on a night Tracey was out to impress her audience. A teenager causing havoc in the country's top intelligence agency. I feel a bloody fool."

"Look on the bright side. Cowley must feel an even bigger fool. There was no real harm done, either."

"There would have been if Denis had had the chance to sell the story."

"You're really not in the mood, are you," realised Bodie, stepping back a pace. "What's bothering you?" 

Doyle stared at him, shamingly aware that his chief preoccupation had little to do with CI5, save for the fact that with the mole found their reason for staying in the Squad was gone. Without CI5 to hold them together he didn't know if they had a future.

"I'm tired and I'm hungry," he said lamely.

"I'm peckish myself," acknowledged Bodie, tugging Doyle in the direction of the kitchen. "What's in the freezer? Not much. Pizza, pizza or pizza. Looks like we'll be having pizza, then. OK?" 

"Fine." The walls of his newly-secured world tumbling around his ears, Doyle would have accepted hemlock without blinking.

"There should be some wine in the fridge." Setting the microwave, Bodie cast covert glances at his companion while keeping up an inconsequential flow of talk.

"Try some of this," he invited eventually, nudging a glass of wine in Doyle's direction.

"No. I can't work up any enthusiasm for pizza at one-thirty either. I'm for bed. I'll see you in the morning."

The unemphatic but unmistakable rejection was reinforced by the sound of a closing door. Staring at the space Doyle had been occupying, Bodie's face was set, his eyes bleak. His own appetite gone, he switched off the microwave and sat down, disposing of two glasses of wine without tasting them. The quiet room seemed claustrophobic. Rising abruptly to his feet, he picked up the bottle and glass and went out into the small garden. It was cold but not unbearably so. Perching himself on the up-ended plastic dustbin, his back to the outside wall of the kitchen, he poured himself another glass of wine, trying to trace back through the evening to account for what could be bothering Doyle. 

It has to be something Cowley said. He's discovered we're lovers and wants to split us up. No, Ray would tell him to get stuffed. Or maybe Cowley wants us to stay on as his number Twos for real. 

Adjusting well to his new responsibilities, Bodie admitted that the idea appealed to him more than he would have thought possible even a month ago. But Cowley faced mandatory retirement in under a year and Bodie placed no faith in Whitehall to select a worthy successor. Indeed, with Cowley gone, he could foresee a time, maybe not too distant, when CI5 was disbanded or, more probably, amalgamated with one of the less autonomous Intelligence sections: C11, C14, or perhaps MI5. The areas of responsibility always overlapped, the more so because Cowley took on additional cases as and when he decided they were CI5's responsibility. 

If the thought of a life after Cowley for CI5 is bothering me, it's a certainty that Ray's been worrying himself to death over it. 

Wanting to believe that was all that was preoccupying Doyle, Bodie couldn't convince himself, afraid that without CI5 in common their relationship on every level would founder.

The bottle of wine empty, his glass held upside down between lax fingers, Bodie stared sightlessly at the cracked pavement beneath his feet. A shadow darkening in his peripheral vision startled him into an attack aborted only when he recognised the man shivering in a thin dressing-gown.

"Very impressive," said Doyle acidly, having countered Bodie's attack without conscious thought. "Have you lost your mind, it's freezing out here. What have you been doing all this time?" he added in a different tone.

"Thinking. Go back to bed."

Staring at his lover's bent head, Doyle swallowed the retort he had intended to make. He had caught Bodie watching him, his expression unreadable, many times over the last few weeks. Now, in the cold, quiet hours of the night, Doyle recognised the vast weariness in his companion which had little to do with physical fatigue. Knowing much of it was his fault, Doyle's expression was suddenly bleak because he also knew Bodie would never admit that anything was wrong, let alone concede that Doyle was the cause.

Staring at Bodie's profile he experienced an exasperated surge of tenderness, akin to that of a parent for its overtired child who stubbornly refuses to give in. Akin, but not the same. Bodie was no child and Doyle's feelings, while they might be confused, were in no way parental. A part of him longed to say the words Bodie wanted to hear, but he couldn't. He had avoided investigating his own emotions, disconcerted by the anger lurking beneath his surface calm which he had controlled for so long but which refused to dissipate now the time for it was past.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Doyle tried to convince himself that it would all sort itself out. Ignoring Bodie's glare, he perched on the few vacant inches of dustbin. "You've been thinking about the Squad, I suppose." His tone gave no hint of his inner concern at how low the temperature had to fall before a man's balls dropped off. 

The things I do for...Bodie, he amended, stubbornly denying the word and the commitment which went with it. Shivering, he was prepared to give Bodie three minutes before he forcibly returned them both to the warmth of the flat.

"That's right."

"Cowley wants you back, you know that." Doyle tried not to think of Bodie on the streets without him. He had almost come to terms with the fact that his own days in the field were over but sometimes had to fight the daydream where they turned back the clock.

"Of course I know," snapped Bodie, leaning forward to reduce their physical proximity.

"And?" 

"You're right, it's freezing. Go to bed, you're turning blue."

Realising that was all he was going to be told about Bodie's decision, Doyle collected the empty bottle and relieved his partner of his glass before leaning back against the wall, a look of resignation on his face.

"You're a stubborn sod, aren't you?" Bodie glared at him with something close to dislike.

"Maybe that's why we get on so well."

It was an assertion Bodie didn't feel equal to arguing with. "Maybe. All right, I'm coming in." The heat of the kitchen was like a stifling blanket, making him realise how cold he was.

Trying not to dwell on the fact Bodie had shown no interest in his own plans, never mind the fact he had no idea what Bodie was going to do, Doyle locked the door against the night. "My bed should still be warmish."

Bodie simply nodded and left his flat to go upstairs to Doyle's. But even huddled together against the chill Doyle still felt distanced from the man he hugged, afraid that history might be about to repeat itself, while refusing to do anything about it.

oOo

"Here's your post." Bodie tossed it on the table before opening the bottle of milk he had gone downstairs to collect, drinking the cream before pouring some into each mug of tea.

"Cheers. Advertising bumf, bill and..." Opening the letter, Doyle fell silent.

Bodie could not help noticing the two expensive-looking invitations which had accompanied the letter, the name Kate Holden on prominent display.

"I'd forgotten Kate's exhibition was set up for October," remarked Doyle after a moment. "It opens next Tuesday - should be good. She's got six unknowns using various mediums showing with her to give them a start. One of the advantages of being filthy rich is that she can afford to do it - although having a mate willing to lend her his Kensington house as a gallery helps. There aren't many places in London with a garden big enough to do Kate's work justice."

"What happens when it rains?"

"You get wet. Kate's writing is horrible. Still, this means she'll be in London for a few days. We should be able to fix up something so you two can meet."

Gathering that he would not be accompanying Doyle to the opening, Bodie crunched a mouthful of toast with more vigour than was necessary. "I'll look forward to it. Who's the second ticket for?"

"Anyone I want to take along, I suppose. There's no point inflicting it on you. Page 3 it ain't." 

"We can't all be artistic." Despite his good intentions there was an edge to Bodie's voice.

"Eh?" The letter drooping in his hand, Doyle stared at him. "D'you think I am? But I helped with some of the planning back in the Spring. Kate's always sick as a parrot on opening nights. That's why she hasn't shown for... It must be coming up to six years now. If I turn up beforehand she'll have a familiar face she can yell at if she needs to. I thought I'd give the spare ticket to Cowley," he added, aware that he had hurt Bodie yet again and changing the subject because he couldn't think of a way of apologising without making matters worse.

"Cowley!" Bodie inhaled a toast crumb.

By the time Doyle had thumped him on the back and ordered him to blow, constraint between them was impossible.

"I know you said you thought she and Cowley got on all right," said Bodie, as if there had been no interruption," but you wouldn't be thinking of trying to play Cupid? Not for Cowley?"

"Do me a favour. You should hear Kate on the subject of CI5 - fascist is the kindest thing she has to say. But she didn't dislike him and he liked what he saw of her work. In a year he'll be retired. What's he going to do with himself? His private life is non-existent."

"Ours being so rich and varied."

"At least we always tried to have a life and friends away from CI5."

"Keeping them was the problem."

"You know what I mean."

"I have the horrible suspicion that I do. Somehow I can't see Cowley learning to paint by numbers at his time of life."

"Kate's a sculptor."

"Even worse. It's easier to imagine him basket-weaving. Anyway, we don't know that he doesn't have someone stashed away. Well, we don't," insisted Bodie, trying not to laugh himself.

"Money where your mouth is. A thousand quid says not."

The sum nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds fifty pence above Doyle's usual betting limit, Bodie grinned. "You won't find many takers. But I still think you're losing your grip - if not your mind."

"Maybe. I'll leave the ticket for Cowley - it's up to him what he does with it. The opening's next Tuesday. If you fancy taking a look we'd only need one ticket between us - if you wouldn't be bored."

"Don't get bored with you," muttered Bodie, belatedly realising why Doyle had excluded him. "Why not, it's time I broadened my horizons."

"Carry on eating toast at that rate and that's not all you'll broaden," retorted Doyle, shamelessly stealing the last slice from Bodie's plate.

"Hope it chokes you," said Bodie, who hadn't wanted it anyway. "What are you grinning at now?"

"Just anticipating your expression when you hear some of the critics - professional and self-appointed."

"There's a vicious streak in you," murmured Bodie with more sorrow than surprise. "Besides, it can't be worse than that art exhibition Cowley sent us to when we were after Colonel Sangster."

"Have it your own way."

"Fat chance with you around. You finished? Come on then."

"Where to?"

"HQ. I know Cowley gave us the morning off but with so many people down in Hampshire with the sheik I thought we might as well go in early." His expression dared Doyle to comment on his display of responsibility.

"I was planning to do some phoning around to see if I can get a lead on that Semtex Stuart's been trying to trace anyway."

Arriving at headquarters, it was with some disappointment that they realised their triumph of the previous evening, accidental though it had been, was not common knowledge.

"What were you expecting, a fanfare of trumpets?" asked Doyle as he led the way up the stairs.

"I wouldn't have said no to a red carpet and a treble scotch. Come on, admit it - you'd like someone to tell you what a clever boy you've been."

"You make me sound like a bleedin' budgie," complained Doyle as he checked the duty roster, but his grin conceded the point.

"I fancy a cuppa before we get started. I suppose it isn't hard to understand why it's being kept quiet. I feel sorry for the Department of Social Security."

"Don't be like that, she's a nice enough kid."

"It didn't stop her from driving you nuts in five minutes flat. Our Tracey must come from another planet. I mean, fancy thinking Cowley's ever such a nice man." Bodie had captured the tone if not the pitch of her voice perfectly.

"If the pair of you have nothing better to do," remarked a familiar voice from behind them.

Having seen Cowley's reflection in the window, neither man reacted.

"Morning, sir. Cup of tea?" invited Bodie.

"No, and you won't have time to finish yours. I'm needed back at the talks and Ruth and Sally have got a lead on Hassan. I've two back up teams on the way to them. You'll coordinate the operation. Doyle will run the squad from here."

"Great," sighed Doyle as the door banged behind the Scot.

"It's malice aforethought," groaned Bodie. "Sally can't stand me and Ruth's not what I'd call enthusiastic. They could run the op. standing on their heads."

"Will you tell Cowley that or shall I?"

Sticking two fingers up at his partner, Bodie drained his mug of tea. "I'd better be off. See you."

"Sure." Doyle did not trust himself to say more. While Bodie wasn't on operational strength, the odds on him being content to direct from the sidelines the operation to capture the assassin were poor to non-existent. Allied to which Doyle was aware of an unlovely surge of envy, knowing that he was automatically excluded from such an operation now.

As if sensing something amiss Bodie turned at the door. "Do you want to a switch assignments?" he asked abruptly. While the thought of sending Doyle after Hassan wasn't appealing he knew Doyle's acceptance of his enforced regrading went no further than skin deep. It didn't help matters when Cowley rubbed it in.

"D'you mean that?" There was a fierce, hungry look on Doyle's face.

"I wouldn't say it otherwise."

Something in his companion's steadfast gaze made Doyle sigh, shake his head and relax, wry amusement apparent now. "Get behind me, Satan. Thanks, but I've got to get used to it sometime. But do me one favour?"

"Maybe," said Bodie with caution, hoping his relief wasn't apparent.

"Watch yourself. Leave the heroics to those who get underpaid to perform 'em."

"You worry about me?" It was clearly a new thought to Bodie.

"Course not. But if you get yourself killed don't expect me to pay for your headstone." While Doyle's tone was hardly lover-like Bodie had known him for a long time.

"I'll be careful," he promised.

"And three pigs just flew over Waterloo Bridge. On your bike. Don't annoy the girls too much - and thanks."

Rubbing his nose, Bodie looked up from under his lashes. "Talk's cheap," he said cryptically, leaving before sentiment got the better of him.

Cursing Cowley, Bodie, and himself for being stupid enough to get himself invalided out, Doyle decided to make the Duty Officer's life a misery.

oOo

Still too keyed-up to sleep, Bodie found Doyle briefing Jax, Neville and Miles. Sparing Bodie a nod of acknowledgement, Doyle didn't miss a beat, but it was noticeable that the next time he smiled the warmth reached his eyes.

"You done?" Bodie asked as the room cleared.

"Just about. Any joy from Hassan?"

"Not even colourful curses. Cowley might get something out of him but I doubt it. Fanatics live in a world of their own. Are you ready to go home?"

"And willing. Reckon you can wait till we close the front door?" asked Doyle, recognising all the signs of a powerfully turned-on Bodie.

"If I have to. Want you, Ray."  
"You can have me if I can get out of the building without the phone - Fuck! Yeah, Doyle. How long ago? Sit tight. Do not, repeat, do not, go in alone. A team's on its way with Met. back up. I'm stuck here," Doyle announced unnecessarily five minutes later, arrangements in hand. "Morrison's holed up in a hotel in Paddington. Go home."

"And do what?"

"There's always your good right hand. Give it one for me. Go on. There's no point both of us suffering and you've had a busy forty-eight hours."

"And you haven't?"

"I've had a few hours' kip here."

Bodie shoved his hands in his pockets and bent over Doyle. "It isn't all right but I forgive you. I'll relieve you in the morning if there's no let up."

There wasn't a let up, Cowley detained at the talks. By Tuesday afternoon it was obvious there wouldn't be time for an evening at any art exhibition, CI5 at full stretch, having already requisitioned some of Hunter's people from Special Branch for observation details because there was no one else available.

"As you've got to get into a penguin suit tonight for that do Cowley lumbered you with, why not take a couple of hours now to see Kate," suggested Bodie to Doyle. "I can hold the fort here till you get back."

"You sure?"

"Positive. Though if you can do a Cinderella and get back by midnight. Lisa and Anderson should have caught up with the Kristoph mob by then. I'd like to lend a hand with the interrogations. Standard procedures won't work with Kristoph."

"I'll be back before eight. I can cancel the dinner," said Doyle, his sacrifice less than total. "Thanks."

oOo

It was nearly two days before they met up again, Bodie locating his heavy-eyed but alert-looking partner on the telephone to the Home Secretary. The expressions flicking across the stubbled face were in a marked contrast to the watered down report Doyle was making.

"Born liar, you are," Bodie remarked admiringly as Doyle hung up.  
"Natural talent." Doyle sat back and gave an arching stretch. "I hope I look better than you. Haven't you had any sleep recently? And a shave might help."

"Says Mr Elegance. I'm OK. Where's Cowley?"

"With Hassan. Not that he's doing any better than you did. Still, at least things are easing up. Go home. I'm still fresh as the proverbial daisy. Well, close," Doyle conceded as Bodie just stared at him.

"Consider me gone. I owe you."

"I know. I'll think of something."

Aware of the gaze travelling over his body, Bodie grinned. "I bet you will. But you might have to wake me up to enjoy it. Is Cowley's scotch locked up?"

"For a wonder, no. Hang on." Doyle reached for the intercom. "Betty, I don't care who it is, hold all calls for five minutes. Thanks. Bloody thing hasn't stopped, he added to Bodie. "That's better." He took a large mouthful of scotch and unfastened the tie he had been wearing at half-mast for the last twenty-four hours.

"How does Cowley's chair feel?"

"Not as uncomfortable as it used to. Dunno if that's a good sign or not. I hear you got the works from Kristoph's number two - Oakley, isn't it?"

"That's right. Though the credit must go to Lisa."

"You're having me on?"

"Straight up. She frightened the shit out of him. You knew he's got two rape convictions, not to mention his other jolly pastimes? Well, she came on like... Bloody scared me. Didn't say a word to Oakley. Just ordered us to strip him from the waist down, tie him to a chair and get the tool kit from the boot of the car - I thought she should start the interrogation, see. It was all over in half an hour."

"You never let her -?"

"Give me a break. She never got closer to him than three feet. It was the pliers that did it - and the look on her face. There wasn't a bloke in the room whose balls weren't crawling out of sight in sympathy. She's a bloody good actress. I've left her heading the team following up on the names and addresses Oakley gave her. She earned the right. Handled the interrogation like a seasoned pro."

"What does she eat for breakfast, iron filings?"

"No. But she's had to watch those films Oakley and Kristoph made. Said she didn't think Oakley would fancy some of those tricks being used on him. She was right. I must be getting soft in my old age,’ added Bodie sombrely.

"What do you mean getting," scoffed Doyle, nudging him with the foot propped on the corner of the desk.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not wasting any sympathy on Oakley. But with his record and reputation you expect a hard man. He's just a rumpled middle-aged man who was so terrified he pissed himself just before he started to cry. On the street I could put him down without a thought but... Watching him crumple like that... It still takes me by surprise that people like him are just like everyone else."

"We've done worse to suspects in our time," pointed out Doyle gently.

"I know. It isn't Lisa. Besides, soon as she'd got all he could tell us she disappeared off to the Ladies to throw her heart up. Not that anyone's supposed to know. 'S a funny line of work we're in." There was no hint of self-consciousness in Bodie's voice as he unburdened himself because he knew Doyle would understand.

"The time to worry is when any of our lot look like they're enjoying that side of things too much. Lisa's file says she's a good actress. She'll have to learn not to get into a cover too deep. Guaranteed trip to a funny farm, that is. That's something else - "

" - to add to the training list," anticipated Bodie, visibly unwinding. "I haven't had the chance to ask before, did you manage to see Kate?"

"Briefly. I don't know how the opening went though. I'll give her a ring when there's time. I'd like you two to meet. And it's no good you eyeing that bottle. One's all you're having. Cowley's scotch, Cowley's rules. Go home. You can use my car - I can take one from the pool. Here." Doyle fumbled for his car keys even as he answered the ringing telephone.

Bodie took advantage of the fact they were alone to blow Doyle a kiss before leaving his partner to it. Only remembering it was lunchtime when he emerged onto the street, he decided to go for a drive, needing more time to unwind before he slept. The majority of the tourists returned home, the autumn sun shining, the world began to seem a brighter place. Content within himself, Bodie turned the car out of the car park and smiled as he remembered Kate Holland's exhibition.

It was only as he went up the steps of the Kensington mansion that it dawned on him that he might not be dressed for the event. Giving a mental shrug, he went in anyway. Swallowing his shock at the price of admittance and his outrage at the cost of a catalogue, he pretended not to notice the looks of disdain his crumpled appearance was attracting. The works he glimpsed in the marble hallway, which was the size of many a suburban house, bore little resemblance to anything he recognised - or wanted to see again.

His mouth pursed, Bodie flicked through the catalogue. Finding the introduction incomprehensible, he concentrated on the illustrations one, that of a figure in humble clay, stopped him in his tracks. His expression intent, his thumb marking the page, Bodie set out to find the relevant room.

"You must be Bodie," said a voice in the crowd.

Because it was warm, deep, feminine and friendly, Bodie's hand slid away from his Walther. He turned to see a petite woman in her early fifties smiling up at him. "That's right. You're Kate Holden?"

"It's a terrible photograph, isn't it," she agreed, having noticed his unconscious glance at the catalogue he held.

"How did you know who I - ? I suppose cords aren't the recommended costume for dos like this."

"Don't be ridiculous. Compared to Ray you're a pattern card of neatness. I'm glad you managed to find time to come."

"Why? And how did you know who I am?"

"Because I wanted to meet you. The rest is easy. You were looking for something in particular when I interrupted you." Easing the catalogue open to the page marked by his thumb, she nodded. "I thought you might recognise it. Come and see the original."

Bodie allowed himself to be led through the milling crowds, Kate deflecting those who would have detained her with a practised charm which did not slow their determined pace in the slightest. Away from the central hall there were fewer people, the small room she took him to deserted save for a bored-looking guard.

"There," she said, standing back.

The clay figure was that of a man, the naked strength of his neck, back and thighs revealed in stark relief where he crouched, curled in upon himself. The head bowed, the face was hidden. The model was crude and unfinished, the technique primitive, but it radiated a raw power it was impossible to ignore. Bodie felt as if his dismembered soul had been put on public display.

Coldly angry, he glared at his companion but her attention was still on the model. His mouth compressed, afraid of what he might otherwise say, Bodie stared at the well-lit figure again some of his resentment faded when he realised that there was more than one emotion on eloquent display. The man was close to tearing himself apart in his effort to contain the killing force within him. While the body could have been his own, the emotions weren't necessarily his. 

"Ray," he said with flat-voiced recognition.

"And you, I think."

Her searching gaze left him with few secrets. To his surprise Bodie found himself grinning. "Ray warned me you'd have the clothes off my back within ten minutes of meeting you."

"What? I'm sorry. Yes. Will you sit for me? Not now or even next week, but sometime. I want those shoulders, that neck. The muscle definition is too heavy for the purist but it's rare to see such a compact..."

Not a man who usually enjoyed being assessed like a carcase on a butcher's hook, Bodie found it impossible to take offence because there was nothing of the personal in her manner. "I expect so," he heard himself say weakly. "Just so long as you don't tell Doyle. I've been wanting to meet you. Ray doesn't have many friends - real friends."

"And you want to check me out," she recognised. "Ray is past the age of consent."

Bodie shot her a wary look but kept a grip on his temper. "That's true. Look, are you stuck here, or is there somewhere we can have a drink? If I'm going to be cross-examined about my prospects and intentions I'd rather be comfortable."

"You would tolerate that?"

"Ray wants us to meet," shrugged Bodie, beginning to wish he had gone straight home to bed.

"Wine is being served in the Blue Room." She grinned at Bodie's look of consternation. "For that, I should give you a guided tour around the Exhibition. Follow me, I know all the escape routes. If you see anyone over six feet wearing a burgundy bow tie start talking serious money - that's the only way Maxim will let me escape. How I hate this three-ring circus."

"Then why do it?" asked Bodie cynically.

"Because I want the world to see my work. And for the money, of course."

"This is hardly a cross-section of the world as I know it."

"And art is for the people?"

Bodie abandoned the unequal contest. "Don't ask me. I'm a philistine."

"By whose standards?"

"Anyone's. Let's go." Bodie followed her through the garden to a side door, waiting until a security man unlocked it, freeing them onto a side street.

"Better?" asked Kate Holden.

"Much. That figure, is it for sale?"

"No. Ray doesn't know it survived, never mind that it's on show. I'm waiting for a suitable moment to break the news to him. Maxim has had three offers for it already. It's a powerful piece."

"Yes," agreed Bodie, his tone carefully non-committal.

"It makes you uncomfortable?"

Waiting for Kate to enter the hotel lounge, Bodie paused. "Ray made it while he was staying with you, I suppose?"

"About a month after he arrived."

"Maybe he should play with clay more often. He hasn't let all the anger out yet."

"And you have?"

"How about having a full afternoon tea?" Bodie suggested. He hadn't intended to tell her that much, angry with his slip - and her.

"Earl Grey," Kate told the hovering waiter, remaining silent until they had been served and were alone again, the lounge nearly deserted. "Ray managed to spend a couple of hours with me on Tuesday. He looks... I wanted to meet the man who brought him back to life."

"It's called the kick-start method. Damn, how do you do that? You're worse than Cowley," he grumbled, but without any real heat.

"I gather that's a compliment. It worked, that's all that matters. The figure is yours, if you would like it - not that it's mine to give away. But I think Ray will destroy it if he sees it."

Bodie bit carefully into a cream-filled eclair to gain himself time. "No. Neither of us need any reminders. I thought Ray painted."

"He does, though badly. Call it therapy," said Kate serenely, dissecting a strawberry tart with her fork.

"Better than basket weaving, I suppose. Did Ray make anything else?"

"Nothing that survived."

That telling him more than he wanted to know, Bodie pushed his plate containing a half-eaten eclair away. "Do you love him?"

"Are you always this direct?"

"Most of the time."

"Ray isn't a bone to be fought over."

"I have no intention of fighting for him." While Bodie didn't move, his unblinking gaze was intimidating of intent.

Relaxing back in her chair, Kate eyed him thoughtfully. "We've been discussing Ray as if he's a possession that can be handed around. To continue with that theme, you don't need to fight for him. He's already yours. He was a year ago - only you chose to abandon him. That's happened to Ray too often for him to be able to shrug it off. Each time the hurt has gone deeper, the doubts becoming more insistent. He's a man who needs answers - you must have noticed that much about him for yourself. Do you behave like this all the time?" she added coolly.

Her conversational tone succeeded where anger would have failed, the arrogance on Bodie's face fading to a fleeting look of abashed confusion before he took refuge in his cup of tea. "Only when Ray lets me get away with it - which isn't often. Sorry," he muttered, giving up on the Earl Grey, which he detested.

"Ray bought a few sketches for you while he was here," Kate offered, further softening when she saw the delight he could not immediately hide. It gave a glimpse of a very different man behind the arrogance which so irritated her. She began to understand how Doyle could call this man friend.

"For me? He always claims the closest I get to art is the Queen's head on a postage stamp."

"They're working sketches, and therefore not on show. If you have the time I can show you the original they inspired." 

Bodie's bemused gaze turned from the purple and grey toned confusion on the canvas to Kate. "The sketches inspired this?" He made a valiant effort to inject enthusiasm into his voice.

"Forget your preconceptions and move back. No, farther, you're too close. Now, study the picture again."

Bodie did as he had been instructed, treating the portrait to the same scrutiny he would give to the latest laser rifle sent for examination.

"Bloody 'ell, I know that bum!"

Several neatly groomed heads turned, the owner of each appraising Bodie with varying degrees of interest. A mischievous twinkle in her eyes Kate led him into an antechamber.

"You set me up," accused Bodie without heat.

"Unashamedly. You'll enjoy the sketches. They're anatomical studies and wholly representational."

"I like to know what I'm looking at," agreed Bodie without apology. "The little devil. He never told me he was an artist's model."

"He's probably forgotten. It was only for a week - as a favour when my usual model had chicken-pox. No one locally would oblige. Ray stepped in to save the class losing a day until someone could come down from London. He was a terrible model," she added reflectively.

"Why?" demanded Bodie, defensive on Doyle's behalf.

"Too restless. In the end I gave up on the set poses and we used him while he exercised. It was good discipline for the class - and me - and it kept him quiet. There's another picture you might find interesting, if you think you'll recognise Ray's feet?"

"I'll pass. I can understand why you and Ray get on so well. You both have a rotten sense of humour. You've known him a long time."

"Since he was nineteen. But not as well as you, I think. Does it disturb you that he and I used to be lovers?"

"No." Bodie replied without hesitation, glad to realise it was the truth. Your loss, my gain. He was unaware that the thought was mirrored on his face and so did not understand why she should smile, albeit wryly. "Ray would like us to go out for a meal one evening - so we can get to know each other better."

"And what would you like?" she asked.

"I could stand the idea. It's my fault we got off on the wrong footing. I didn't understand."

She gave a quick frown. "What?"

"That you really are a friend."

"You couldn't take Ray's word for that?"

"Our line of work has taught me to take nothing on trust."

"Who was it you mistrusted, Ray or me?"

His surprise gave Kate her answer before Bodie said," Unfortunately we're both tied up with work at the moment. Could we ring you when we're free?"

"Of course. If I've gone home, come down to Devon for a weekend - "

"Kate, darling, I simply must congratulate you. Divine, sweetheart. So true, so touching. But with something of a peasant's simplicity..."

Viewing with unease the violet-haired apparition crammed into a white bodystocking that was both too small and too young for the face above it, Bodie muttered a hasty farewell and escaped back into his own world. While he was not sure what to make of Kate, for Doyle's sake he would persevere. Collecting his car, he arrived home just before six. 

Falling asleep almost immediately, a whisper of sound brought him awake, his erection poking against the sheet, to see Doyle at naked full stretch as he closed a top cupboard in the fitted wardrobe. Everything Bodie had intended to say was forgotten in the immediacy of the moment.

"Don't move," he commanded huskily, leaving the bed.

"You what?" Half-turning, Doyle read his expression with ease. "Like that, is it?" His cock gave a twitch of interest.

"Want you, Ray. Now. Before the bloody phone goes and we get called in again. Christ, you're beautiful. Turn round."

"You want me here?"

"Anywhere," mumbled Bodie, kiss-biting Doyle's shoulder.

His hands grasping the top of the chest of drawers, Doyle made no demur when his legs were nudged apart, Bodie's hands moving in swathes down his back, flanks and belly, clever fingers drawing him up. He could feel Bodie's warmth at his back, cock teasing the cleft of his buttocks.

"Come on, then," he commanded tightly. "Do it now. Here." 

Planting his feet wider apart, he arched his back so his rump was in the air, making a sound low in his throat as blunt tipped fingers sank into him, causing more discomfort than was usual before they flicked across his prostate. Doyle's leap of response was no less powerful or welcome for the fact it was involuntary.

"Damn! Too dry," growled Bodie in frustration.

"Spit!" Impaling Bodie's fingers deeper in his body with each rocking motion he made, Doyle was in no mood to wait. You heard me. Spit. It'll do."

Bodie spat, anointing Doyle, then himself before he entered Doyle without further preliminaries. Gasping out his need, Bodie took him with the pent up frustration of two weeks of wanting, as urgent for him as if it was the first time. Doyle met him with a fervour which sent Bodie rocketing, so that when Doyle came with a lush-sounding cry, his muscles spasming. Bodie's teeth closed over sinew and bone, climax tearing him apart. Remaining hunched over Doyle's back, his groin plastered to Doyle's arse, he was slow to regain the sense of where he was. Easing free, he slumped, his sweating face buried in the curve of Doyle's neck as he allowed Doyle to bear their joint weight until he realised the strain he was imposing on the slighter man. It was a moment before Doyle could straighten. Bodie licked delicately at the clear imprint of his teeth across Doyle's shoulders, palming the small buttocks as he supported him, still shaking a little himself.

"Christ, Ray, I - "

"I know." Freeing himself, Doyle arched his back, winced and gave a weary grin, his eyes still smoky, skin flushed with sexual heat.

"I don't think saliva was enough."

"Maybe not," conceded Doyle, grimacing when he realised how sore he was. "But a change of pace never hurt anyone now and again." 

"If we try it like that too often we'll never make old bones," sighed Bodie as they fell into bed together, having made a unilateral decision to dispense with cleanliness other than a desultory mop-up with Doyle's discarded shirt.

Doyle made a vague acknowledgement. Having managed no more than the odd catnap during the last sixty hours he would have sworn he had been beyond a sexual response. "Bring a dead man up, you would," he mumbled.

"Why would I want to throw up a corpse?"

"You what?" Doyle's cavernous yawn and drooping eyelids spoke for themselves.

"It's OK, sunshine. I hadn't realised how tired you are. I went to see Kate this afternoon, tell you about it after we've had a kip. Now, I don't want you glaring at me - might give me a complex - but are you hurt?"

"Dunno, I'm still flying. An air cushion might be nice tomorrow, I suppose. Sorry, I've got t'sleep. 'S been..." Fading off into another yawn, Doyle abandoned the battle, asleep in seconds.

 

Doyle limped out of the bathroom, one hand pressed in the small of his back as he entered the bedroom.

"My hero," mocked Bodie affectionately, coming into the room behind him with a loaded tray. To Doyle's loudly expressed disgust it didn't contain breakfast but a towel, tissues, antiseptic cream and aromatic oil. "All part of the service, mate. I should have seen to you last night."

"In case it's escaped your notice I'm quite capable of looking after myself," retorted Doyle tartly, watching Bodie spread the towel over the sheet.

"You'll feel better afterwards."

"Sure. I love an internal before breakfast. Everything's working fine, thanks." Doyle's grumpy expression mellowed. "In fact thanks a lot. I'm not complaining. Much," he added scrupulously as Bodie gave a hoot of derision. "I wouldn't say no to a massage though."

"You just like watching me do all the work."

"Only just noticed, have you?" Doyle made himself comfortable on the bed, his cheek pillowed on his forearms, his legs parted.

Bodie gave an audible swallow. "D'you have any idea what you look like lying there?"

Doyle opened one eye. "Inviting?"

"You can't feel up to - ?" Bodie tried not to sound too hopeful, aware of a stirring beneath his bathrobe.

"Oh, I don't know. There's more than one way of skinning a cat. Unless you don't feel you'll be up to it." Doyle's expression was innocence personified as he rolled onto his back, one hand idly toying with himself, the other outstretched to Bodie.


	15. Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

"Ah, here you are," said Cowley with satisfaction. "Bodie, Brian is off with flu and I have a team in need of some fine honing at the Centre this afternoon. If you leave now you won't be late."

"What?"

"You heard me. You'll be stepping into Brian's shoes."

A wide, happy beam spread across Doyle's face. "Oh, bad luck, mate."

"Doyle, Ruth is chaperoning the Darrow woman and I need a chauffeur for the day. You'll do."

The smile on Bodie's face said it all.

"Your time will come," Doyle promised him as Cowley left the room. "Don't go straining anything important. I'll see you later. Coming, sir!"

 

It was a long time since he had been relegated to this kind of tedium but Doyle was in no mood to resent the fact, basking in the November sunshine while he waited for Cowley to return from his various visits, the Scot having declined to be accompanied by anyone wearing a Garfield sweatshirt and jeans so patched they verged on the indecent.

Returning to the car just before one o'clock and giving the frankly dozing Doyle a look of disapproval, Cowley joined him in the front, a slim folder in his hands. "Call in and tell Betty to cancel my afternoon schedule. The Colonel has indicated that he wishes to see me again. You can drive me to Wiltshire."

"Thank you, sir," breathed Doyle, all gratitude as he slid the Rover out into the traffic.

"I suppose I asked for that," Cowley conceded after a moment.

Doyle spared him a grin before concentrating on leaving London as quickly as possible, looking forward to a more open road and the chance to put his foot down. His only regret was the fact he wouldn't be around to barrack Bodie's attempt to emulate Macklin.

Not that he'll try. Bodie has his own methods of getting a message across. Probably more effective, too. That job would suit Bodie down to the ground. It's a sin to stick him behind a desk. He'd be much happier making some poor sod's life a misery. Or back on the streets... While that was undoubtedly true, it was a possibility Doyle was unwilling to think about. He tried to concentrate on his driving, unaware that he was frowning.

Glancing up from the report he had been reading, Cowley cast a quizzical glance at the dashboard. "Are you aware that we're travelling over thirty miles an hour in excess of the speed limit?" 

"I thought you might be in a hurry." Aware that, while he would never admit it, Cowley shared his own passion for speed, Doyle made no attempt to slow down.

"No. Stop at the next Service Station. I want a word with you and I'd rather have your undivided attention."

"I certainly won't be giving it to the food at the Little Chef," said Doyle, easing the Rover into the slow lane when he saw the sign, the car seeming to stand still as he drove at a decorous forty miles per hour along the slip road which led to the Service Station.

"Are you hungry?" Cowley sounded surprised.

"It is lunchtime," Doyle pointed out, parking the car.

"You've been spoilt. We can go inside if you wish."

"Such enthusiasm. I'll grab a sandwich and eat it here. Would you like anything?" Doyle's positive tone made it obvious he was determined to eat.

"Whisky - not Teachers," Cowley added severely.

"I only bought it once - years ago," protested Doyle.

"And knew damn well what you were doing, I'll be bound."

"You could be right," said Doyle cheerfully. "I won't be long." 

Failing to live up to that optimistic statement, he returned laden with two miniature bottles, a plastic beaker, a carton of milk and some fruit.

"I thought you were hungry," remarked Cowley, leaning across to open the driver's door lest his drink become a casualty.

"So did I till I saw what was on sale," said Doyle, offering the Scot an apple and happily biting into it when it was refused.

His shrewd gaze on those entering and leaving the car park, Cowley seemed in no hurry to resume the conversation.

"You wanted a word," Doyle prompted, a little wary now he had had time for reflection.

"Aye. You've been acting as Alpha Two for nearly five months - and making a damn good job of it on the whole. Brian, Jack and Henderson have all given you glowing reports."

"And Kate Ross?" Doyle tossed a banana skin out of the window and licked his fingers.

His pained glance as much for Doyle's behaviour as for the interruption, Cowley took another sip of whisky. "Her report is satisfactory. If I may continue? I want you to take over the position permanently - in tandem with Bodie. It's a rare feat in our business to find someone you can trust."

While the tone was grudging, from Cowley it was a near eulogy and Doyle's eyebrows rose. "I might be more flattered if I didn't know the problems all the Intelligence agencies are having recruiting senior staff at the moment. This is my third job offer in as many weeks."

"Third?" Cowley's tone sharpened.

"Bernard from Dirty Tricks and Willis again. He even upped the ante."

"You know CI5 can't match his budget."

"Not can't, won't. You forget, I know what our budget is. It's not the money. If I was anxious to get rich quick I wouldn't be in this line of work, never mind CI5."

"You'd consider working for Willis?" Cowley's tone made it clear he discounted Dirty Tricks.

Doyle continued to scan the car park. "No, sir, I would not. You might regard us as expendable but at least you manage a faint look of regret when you stitch us up. MI5's mortality rate is eighteen per cent above ours in our worst year. It should be ten per cent lower."

"You've done your homework. How did Willis enjoy you pointing that out to him?"

"I don't think he was pleased," admitted Doyle, draining his carton of milk and licking moisture from his top lip. "It didn't stop him from offering me a job though. I gave him the same answer I've given everyone else - including you. Thanks but no thanks."

"You need time to consider the implications, of course." It was plain Cowley wasn't taking Doyle's rejection seriously.

"No, I've had plenty of time to think about those already." After a pause Doyle seemed to come to a decision. "You know what brought me back to CI5."

"I know who." Something in the older man's voice betrayed him.

"I bet you do." His eyes narrowing, Doyle controlled his temper. "How much do you know - and how long have you known it?"

"Long enough," evaded Cowley briskly. "Fact and supposition are two different things. I shouldn't need to remind you of that. The pair of you have done all that's been asked of you."

"I agree that you - and particularly your successor - need reliable back up from within the Squad. But it won't be me. I appreciate the compliment though."

Cowley made an irritable sound of impatience. "I've better things to do with my time than waste it throwing compliments around. I know you aren't hankering after my job. What is it you do want?"

Doyle shrugged. "I'll know when I find it."

"And in the meantime?"

"I won't starve."

"You'll live off Ms Holden again?" Cowley realised his mistake as soon as he made it.

Doyle merely tossed him another miniature bottle of whisky and got the car underway. But his thoughts far from pleasant, he took no joy in his drive on the last lap of their journey.

"I'm sorry," said Cowley abruptly, crumpling the plastic beaker. "That was an unnecessary remark. But you've too many talents to let them go to waste. Take time to consider your decision. Your private life won't be a bar to your taking up the post."

"Unlike last time." Offered as a statement, Doyle hoped Cowley would contradict him whilst knowing he could not.

"Circumstances have changed."

"We can be useful to CI5 instead of being crack up cases who were too much of a liability to bother about, you mean. What happens when we've outlived our present usefulness? Homosexuality between consenting adult males in private isn't a crime any more." Doyle was angry enough to compel Cowley to admit what they were talking about, tired of skirting around the subject.

"Don't be naive. There's no such thing as private in CI5. The work requires different standards from those accepted by the public."

"Double standards."

"And you think you can change public attitudes overnight? Ach, I'll not debate this with you now, you're in no mood to listen to reason. You and Bodie are right for the job. The fact you sleep together - "

"You can say we're lovers, it would be true."

"What is you want, Doyle - my approval?"

"Merely an acknowledgement of the status quo. You've forgotten something in your calculations this time. I've always excelled at getting into an undercover role. That's all this exercise has been for me, another undercover job."

Doyle's summation uncomfortably close to Kate Ross's view, Cowley chose to ignore it. "We'll continue this discussion at a later date. Perhaps Bodie will be able to change your mind." 

"You don't know either of us very well if that's what you think." But there was a bitter twist to Doyle's mouth; Cowley had pulled their strings for too long for either of them to believe that. 

"Perhaps not, but I still own you," Cowley reminded him, angry himself.

Doyle made no attempt to reply. While he had always known Cowley's ruthless single-mindedness would cause him to use anyone for the good of CI5 as a whole, he didn't want to consider how much influence Cowley's machinations might have exerted in his relationship with Bodie. It stung to realise they had been manipulated so easily, small difficulties and stresses assuming vast proportions because they'd both been punch-drunk with an exhaustion which wasn't just physical: the penalty for being considered Cowley's best team.

It was with some relief, afraid of what he might otherwise say, that Doyle turned the car into the narrow lane which led to the drive of Harcourt House where the talks were being held.

"You can drop me at the gates," announced Cowley shortly. Without sparing Doyle another glance his attention honed in on Brown, who was on guard duty.

Furious with his own naivety for having imagined Cowley's regard for them would extend beyond their usefulness to the Squad, Doyle turned the car with a squeal of tyres before heading back towards London. Narrowly avoiding collision with a tractor two miles down the road, he came to his senses and parked on the grass verge, knowing he needed to calm down unless he wanted to became another accident statistic. Leaving the driver's seat he slammed the door with a venom which rocked the solid car while resisting the urge to punch a dent in the gleaming bodywork.

He was no one's patsy, no man's pawn to be pushed around the board at Cowley's convenience. Nor is Bodie.

The thought of his partner steadied Doyle as little else could have done. He knew his own simplistic sense of betrayal would be nothing to Bodie's hurt if he learnt of the extent to which Cowley had been playing puppet-master with their lives. Not that our cracking up was his fault, but he sure as hell didn't make matters any easier for us. Bastard! And me - for not spotting him at it.

Staring out across the rolling fields bisected by hawthorns, oaks and willows, whose foliage was still rich with autumn colour, Doyle's shoulders slumped. How many times did he try and split us up? I bet our files make interesting reading. What made it seem worse was the fact he couldn't share his sense of outrage with Bodie. Not now, perhaps never. But particularly not now while the job of Alpha Two was being dangled in front of Bodie. He must be free to make his choice unencumbered by bitterness. Bodie would made a good number two, perhaps the best in the business, even if the job wasn't the perfect one for him. The bull in the china shop had mellowed - to a degree - tamed by the weight of responsibility Bodie felt for the agents whose lives depended on his decisions. He'll never be the cautious type but he's learnt to make his experience work for him. And he finds the patience to deal with fools where previously he would have cut them down without a thought. 

Doyle hadn't discussed the job offers he had received with Bodie, or his plans - or rather his lack of them - for his future. That was something he still didn't feel confident enough to talk about. While he knew beyond question of doubt that he wanted his personal future to remain linked to Bodie's, professionally he faced a void of uninspiring jobs now he had turned his back on what he did best.

Perched on the cooling bonnet of the Rover, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, Doyle watched the placidly chewing Friesians in the field opposite and wished his own life could be as simple. Still, at least I won't end up in the knacker's yard, he mused, having reluctantly conceded that in Cowley's position he might take steps to separate agents if their sexual proclivities threatened to upset the status quo within CI5. 

It was only when the cows became indistinct in the fading light that Doyle realised how long he had been sitting here. Getting back into the car, he decided to take the slower A road home because he needed time to think. He had got as far as wondering how he would earn a living once he left CI5 when Control patched a call through to him from a Chief Superintendent Hastings in the village of Little Trenton.

"Mr Doyle, I understand you are heading CI5 in Mr Cowley's absence?"

"That's right," confirmed Doyle mildly, taking the fact for granted now. "What can I do for you?"

"I rather think it's a case of what we can do for you. We have a siege situation in the chemist's. Ten minutes ago the gunmen finally allowed the shop assistant whom they had shot to be taken to hospital. They insisted that a male hostage carry her out rather than allow ambulance men to take a stretcher inside. He managed to give them certain information, including the fact that his name is Bodie. He claims he works for CI5."

"He's right," said Doyle tersely. His gut tightening, he quashed his speculations as to how Bodie came to be in the unlikely setting of a village chemist's. Though if memory served, Little Trenton would be on Bodie's route from the Training Centre if he took the A road rather than the motorway. Maybe he wanted some time to think, too, he thought as he said crisply, "I'm approximately forty miles away. I'll be with you as soon as I can. Give me three minutes and call me back. This is now a CI5 matter. I'll get a team on its way to you."

Ringing off before Hastings could comment, Doyle called Control, relieved to hear that Anson was available. He had been afraid that his taskforce would consist of nothing but Squad newcomers. Rapidly listing the equipment he wanted brought in the six-seater helicopter, from stun grenades to cutting equipment, Doyle left a message for Cowley and concentrated on his driving, muttering under his breath when Hastings failed to ring him back immediately.

"I want a full report," he ordered, the moment he recognised the Chief Superintendent's measured tones.

"A gang of three armed men held up a security van in the vicinity of Slough at midday. They shot and killed the driver before fleeing without the money. According to eye witnesses they drove into Little Trenton at approximately four-forty, whereupon two of the men proceeded to enter the chemist's. A shot was heard moments later; the driver abandoned the car to run inside. We haven't seen them since. The only casualty to date is the shop assistant. We have a trained mediator on the scene who is stalling with regard to their demands."

"Current status?" One hand on the horn, Doyle sped up behind a lumbering lorry which was straddling the middle of the narrow lane. Switching on the rarely-used siren, he scraped past the lorry with a hair's-breadth to spare when it grudgingly pulled over.

"According to your man the gunmen are young and in a highly volatile state. One has been eating amphetamines since breaking into the pharmacy. They are armed with an automatic pistol and a shotgun. There are eleven hostages, including two small children and a baby; the children have been crying more or less continuously."

"Oh christ," groaned Doyle. As a police constable he had attended enough domestic call-outs to be aware of the violence supposedly fond parents could inflict on their young, never mind the effect screaming children would have on souped-up gunmen.

"Quite. The village is cordoned off and the emergency services are standing by. I was proposing to arm two of my officers."

"No," said Doyle sharply. "I have a team on its way by chopper. Notify CI5 Control of the location of a landing site a good couple of miles from the village and have two fast cars standing by. If the chopper comes too close we risk spooking the gunmen."

"The officers I am proposing to arm have received extensive - "

" - as extensive as CI5?" cut in Doyle. "Leave the job to us. I'll make that a direct order if I need to, Chief Superintendent."

"That won't be necessary." Hasting's tone was icy.

Doyle didn't even notice. "Good. What's the access to the shop?"

"The rear entrance is protected by a heavy metal grille, behind which is a steel door. Noise precludes any attempt to cut through them and the only keys are in the possession of the pharmacist, Mr Hyrare. The front entrance is an old-fashioned glass door with a plate glass window. The location of the counter makes any approach via the front a suicide run - or a sure way of losing some hostages," Hastings added pointedly. "The flat above the shop is occupied by Hyrare and his family, all of whom are hostages."

Caught in a traffic jam as he came into Lower Trenton, Doyle waited in line because there was no alternative. "What's the access to the flat?" he asked, wishing Hastings would speed up his delivery.

"Because the shops were converted from houses, the only access is through the rear. The stairs from the flat lead into the storage bay, which is located behind the pharmaceutical area."

"Wonderful. I've just got through the lights at the Dibden crossroads. Give me directions to you. OK, got 'em. Are the houses terraced or detached?"

"Terraced. Why?"

"How old are the houses?" pursued Doyle, mentally cursing the man for his slow-wittedness.

"I would estimate they were built at the beginning of the century, possibly in the latter half of - "

"Great. D'you have any listening gear?"

"It's on its way. I - "

"Good. When it arrives set a team in each shop and flat on both sides of the chemist's. I want someone - the local beat copper if possible - to chat up the neighbours. Everything he can get on the layout of the premises. Older houses sometimes share a common attic which runs the length of the terrace. I should be with you in three or four minutes. Out."

In fact Doyle made it in two, skidding to a halt inches from the police blockade which barred the way down the steeply sloping high street.

"Ray Doyle, CI5," he announced tersely. "Where's Hastings?" 

"An Incident Room has been set up on the edge of the village green just down the hill, sir. Is CI5 expecting - ?"

Doyle was already running down the hill, his identification card in one hand as various uniformed figures moved into his path. The only side road was cordoned off, Doyle peripherally aware of the hubbub of speculation, relish and complaints from householders kept from the site of the siege. Arriving at the large van, he wasted little time on introductions, directing his attention to the sergeant, who was the most senior man present.

"Ray Doyle, CI5. Your Chief Super. is expecting me. I'd like to see him. Now," Doyle added pointedly, wondering why everyone but himself seemed to be moving at half speed. "While I'm waiting I want an open phone line. Tell the local generating station we may need their help - CI5's authority. Where's the mediator working from?"

Following the direction of the slow-to-react sergeant's gaze, Doyle went behind the flimsy screen. The mediator, a small, plump middle-aged man called Stebbins, nodded as Doyle extended his identification, his concentration locked on to the telephone receiver, his fingers caressing the body with the dedication of a lover.

Listening to the calm flow of Stebbins's voice, Doyle relaxed upon realising the man knew his job. At first glance Stebbins appeared as unruffled as his manner suggested until Doyle saw the overflowing ashtray and the sweat beading the bald dome of the older man's head.

"... Piss us aroun' and I'll kill one of the kids. If they don' stop bawlin' I might just do it anyway."

The gunman spoke so fast he was barely comprehensible, the receiver slamming down with a venomous finality, the sound amplified by the loudspeaker attached to the telephone, which enabled everyone in the van to hear without being heard themselves.

"They're edgy," remarked Doyle as Stebbins slumped.

"And getting edgier by the minute." Stebbins reached for another cigarette despite the fact one was burning in the ashtray. "It would help if the kids would let up. I don't know how much longer I can stall them," he added frankly.

Doyle absent-mindedly helped himself to a cigarette from the open packet of John Player on the desk top. "Tell them the police are having trouble locating a bank manager at a branch holding a hundred thousand because at this time of day everyone is on their way home. They've not taken anything in - food, drink?"

"They don't need it. Shop's crammed full of health food. Tins of fizzy drink, too. They haven't asked for any alcohol and they don't smoke," Stebbins added, his quizzical gaze on Doyle.

"Sorry. Here's an RT - it's not on our regular channel. Leave it open so I can listen in at will. Don't worry, you won't get any feedback through it. While a CI5 team should arrive in the next ten minutes or so we'll need all the time you can win for us."

Disillusioned brown eyes regarded him briefly. "What's new?"

Going back round the screen, Doyle ignored Hastings's pained glance, which made it obvious he had been expecting a more prepossessing figure, and asked, "Any change since we spoke?" 

"None. As you requested cars are waiting to collect your men. I hope your pilot finds the right field," Hastings added sourly.

"He'll find it. I'm off to check out the site for myself. These blokes don't sound as if they're settling down for a long wait and my boss gets very unhappy if hostages start dying. Get those arc lights switched off," Doyle added. "It's bad enough trying to see what's going on in there without fighting the glare. Besides, they're intimidating and at the moment intimidation's the last thing on our minds. Right?"

He waited only until Hastings nodded before making his own reconnaissance, mentally congratulating the police for the thoroughness with which they had secured the area. The layout of the village had probably helped. Even the darkness could not disguise the fact that Little Trenton was no postcard paradise, tending towards the drab utilitarian rather than the picturesque. The council estate at the top of the high street was easily cordoned off, as were the more desirable residences on the other side of the litter-strewn village green.

It was impossible to make out any figures inside the well-lit shop, the plate glass window barricaded to a height of five feet by shelves of stock, stickers advertising promotional offers obscuring the rest of the glass. The door offered only small gaps between information notices regarding shop opening and dispensing times and a black and white sign which read open.

There was an uncanny silence in the village, enough to hear distant traffic speeding along the by-pass over three-quarters of a mile away, the car lights glimpsed as flashing pinpricks of gold between the trees.

Access to the rear of the parade was via a narrow, pot-holed alleyway whose only illumination came from the windows of the houses which backed onto it, expectant faces visible at the windows. The police having ordered everyone inside, the villagers had moved upstairs for a grandstand seat. Accustomed to the ghoulishness of the public over the years, Doyle ordered the houses evacuated. The rear of the shop was impregnable if stealth was required, the only window that in the flat above - a bathroom, to judge by its small size, and a good sixteen feet from the ground.

"Your men have done well," he told the Chief Superintendent when he returned to the Incident Room.

"It's their job," replied Hastings, less than enthusiastic about CI5's takeover, Doyle's lack of regard for his rank, and the fact he was taking orders from a man a good ten years his junior.

Flicking through the transcript of Stebbins's conversations with the gunmen and finding nothing to bring any comfort, Doyle looked up, abruptly pinning the older man with an icy stare, but his tone was mild, his voice pitched to carry no farther than Hastings. "You aren't expected to enjoy the situation, just to cooperate." He was beyond the stage where ex-detective constable Doyle enjoyed getting a rise out of senior officers. Besides, he had more important matters to concern him, having almost succeeded in blanking out the fact that Bodie was one of the hostages. Personal involvement was a handicap and he couldn't afford the distraction. But if the stupid bugger gets himself shot, I'll kill him, Doyle promised himself as he answered a call on his RT.

It was Cowley. Swiftly updating him, Doyle stuck up a thumb in welcome when he saw Anson in the doorway before the ex-SAS man disappeared from view again.

"Due to certain - er - difficulties," said Cowley, with a diplomacy which made it obvious he wasn't alone, "this one is yours. I can spare four men, if you need them."

"If the six of us aren't enough, an army wouldn't be. We have police back up," Doyle added, displaying a diplomacy of his own, if no gratitude.

"I see. You hardly need my advice on how to handle this, but I'll buy you a drink or two when it's over."

"Mr Cowley obviously places a lot of confidence in you," remarked Hastings, making no polite pretence of being deaf.

"He's easily fooled," snapped Doyle, before he took a calming breath. "Sorry, my sense of humour seems to be slipping. Bodie's a mate of mine. Is there a room we can use?"

"There's the village hall on the other side of the green, or the vicarage a hundred yards down the high street."

"On site," prompted Doyle, trying not to grind his teeth.

"There is a hairdresser's at the end of the parade. The owner, a Mrs Winstanley, has offered it as a base of operations should one be needed. My men are questioning the other shopkeepers there now."

"Good. We'll take it. I'd like a couple of your officers to escort the shopkeepers and their families to the village hall. It - "

The boom of the shotgun was followed by the sound of breaking glass and screams. Doyle was at Stebbins's side before Hastings had moved.

" ...taste of wha' we can do. What we will do if you don' get your finger out. I don' give a sod abaht your problems. You get us wha' we want and ge' it now." It was the same voice Doyle had heard on his arrival, the receiver slamming down before Stebbins could reply.

"Any casualties?" Doyle asked.

"He says not."

"Let's hope he was a boy scout. Do we have an ID on them yet?" Doyle added to Hastings as they returned to the main section of the Incident Room.

"We're still taking witnesses through the files. What now?"

"We wait," said Doyle, hoping he looked calmer than he felt, every instinct urging an immediate barnstorming of the shop, afraid that the cost of any delay would be too high. "I'll have a word with the neighbours now."

"What about your men?" asked Hastings as he followed Doyle out into the night.

"They're making their own reconnaissance. If you'll ask your people to concentrate on maintaining the wide cordon we'll take over responsibility for patrolling the parade. It will save endless explanations - not to mention possible casualties later. I'd like to channel all reports through your Incident Room. You'd better have one of these," Doyle added, tossing a RT over. "It's set to our frequency, not yours," he explained when he saw Hastings prepare to point out that the police were already equipped with walkie-talkies.

Catching it deftly, Hastings drew out his own radio and spoke quietly into it before saying to Doyle, "The cordon has been pulled back. I assumed we worked quickly until I saw your men in action." On this occasion there was a trace of wry humour in his voice. "Don't dismiss my people out of hand - they're a good bunch."

"I'm sure they are," murmured Doyle, his gaze straying to the light spilling from the chemist's window. "Thanks," he added, aware of the effort Hastings was making and knowing that resentment on the outside could be fatal for the hostages.

 

After Constable Gilmour's detailed report Doyle was confident he knew a great deal more about the Hyrares and their home. One gleaming note of hope lay in the fact that the houses shared a common attic. As women police constables escorted the neighbours away, most of whom betrayed a marked reluctance to leave the scene of so much excitement, Doyle turned back to the remainder of his men. 

"Burrows, you and Taylor familiarise yourselves with the attic and floor plan of the flat. Thompson, sorry, mate, but I need you to act as liaison officer in the Incident Room for the moment."

"Thanks a bundle," groaned Thompson, who as an ex-detective sergeant knew only too well the lack of enthusiasm he could expect to be met with.

"You'll survive. Keep the press half a mile away and tell them from me that if anyone's thinking of taking a chopper up to get an aerial scoop the way they did in Docklands last month we'll shoot them down ourselves. You'll find the Chief Super's OK behind a bullshit exterior. Try not to upset him more than I've managed to already. Oh, no," groaned Doyle as Hastings coughed politely behind him while a grinning Thompson beat a hasty retreat.

"Sorry," said Hastings with bland insincerity. "Did you want me?"

"Definitely OK," said Doyle with conviction.

Hastings's smile took years from his age. "Tea and sandwiches are being brought over for your men. How's it going?" While worded as a request, it was obvious he intended to monitor every step of the operation. Understanding the man's position did not reduce the irritant value.

"Thanks to PC Gilmour we've got a good picture of the layout of the flat. Two of my men are checking out the attic now, another is relieving the boffin up there -our man Phipps is one of the best in the business. I hope the Hyrares loft hatch isn't bolted from the inside like Mrs Winstanley's," Doyle added morosely.

"It's bound to be, if only because of the pharmacy beneath."

"I'm clutching at straws, I know. Maybe we'll be able to talk them out."

"Maybe," echoed Hastings, his tone as dubious as Doyle's.

"Where have you put the hostages's families?" 

"The vicarage. I'll send Gilmour over there. He's well-thought of in the village. Is there anything else you need?"

"Just luck," said Doyle, his expression a careful blank. "Oh, and an unmarked car with a suitcase in it at the top of the high street. A constable's uniform for Thompson, too, while I think of it."

"I'll get those organised and keep you informed."

Doyle was not deaf to the pointed reminder. "If we have to go in, you'll be the first to know," he promised. Propped in the open doorway, he watched Hastings leave, chill night air and the sound of raised voices drifting over to him from the chemist's.

"They're getting edgy," murmured Anson, from behind Doyle.

"I know. What's the access to the flat like?"

"Fort Knox," said Anson succinctly, fishing out the stub of the cigar he had been smoking earlier. "Do you mind if I - ?"

"Yes, but go ahead. I could do with a cigarette myself."

"We'll get them out, Ray." For once Anson's tone lacked its usual flippancy.

"Of course we will," agreed Doyle, moving back into the scented warmth of the salon. "Now seems a good time to pool information, call everyone back, would you."

His briefing was short and to the point. "Right, we know from Anson and Catchpole that we can't use the loft hatch to get into the chemist's. Catchpole, can Phipps give us a positive location for all the hostages?"

"Not with enough precision to risk taking out a side wall and be a hundred per cent safe."

"Then we'll have to go in through the ceiling. We'll use a getaway car at the front for a diversion. We've got an ID for two of the men. Tig Logan is twenty-three, no record since he was a kid; while he has a history of violence there's never been a witnesses willing to testify against him. Johnny Carstairs is nineteen and on bail for aggravated B & E. He's been mainlining since he was fifteen. Nothing known on the third man - the one with the injured hand. What time is it?" Doyle broke off to ask.

"Just after eight," said Anson.

"It's no wonder the kids are getting fractious. Unless they run out of steam we're going to have trouble. What's Phipps heard?"

"Not much from anyone, except Logan. The hostages are bunched together in front of the counter. One of the mums is close to breaking point, she's only a kid herself. It's her brat who's been having the screaming fit. The really good news is that Bodie's hands seem to be tied, and that he's having his ear bent by some old boy who won the Second World War single-handed."

"Wonderful. OK, you say the loft hatch is out because there'll be too much noise cutting through it. What about the ceiling itself?"

"Piece of cake, petal. We took a few tools up with us and I've marked a couple of likely places. One's in the front bedroom - over the Hyrares bed - a nice big double. As the gunmen are behind the counter at the back they shouldn't hear a thing. I've made a few view holes. The flat is in darkness and no one's heard any movement up there, not even the toilet flushing."

"Hope they've all got iron bladders," murmured Burrows.

"You worry about your own," Thompson advised him.

"If you've quite finished," said Doyle, an unmistakable edge to his voice, willing to sacrifice the newer Squad members if he could have Murphy or Jax to back up Anson. "OK, that's how we'll go in, if need be. Thompson, instead of carrying that uniform, change into it. You'll be the driver of the getaway car if we need the diversion. We'll work on RTs, coordinated entry. Phipps will stay with the listening gear feeding information through until the last minute."

"When do we go in?" asked Burrows.

"When we haven't any other choice," replied Doyle bluntly.

"So what do we do now?" demanded Catchpole, sounding aggrieved, tension-induced fidgets making him a restless companion.

"Sit tight and put our feet up," intervened Anson before Doyle could bite his partner's head off. "If anyone's got a pack of cards we'll have a game of poker. I wouldn't mind a sandwich if Burrows hasn't scoffed the lot. Ray?"

"I'll be in the Incident Room," he announced, knowing his irritability was having a far from calming effect on the others. 

 

The air in the Incident Room blue with cigarette smoke, Doyle's first action was to bum a packet of Silk Cut from a sullen-looking woman police constable and add his mite to the polluted atmosphere. Stebbins remained rooted to his chair, maintaining their life-line to events within the chemist's.

Quietly chain-smoking while he absorbed the information in the up-dated reports, Doyle's admiration for the undistinguished-looking mediator increased as the minutes slid into hours and Stebbins held crisis at bay with nothing more than his voice.

With nothing left to update himself on Doyle surrendered to the urge to move, deciding to get some fresh air. He met Hastings at the foot of the van steps.

"You're leaving?" While the Chief Superintendent had unbent to a degree, there was still a certain stiffness in his manner.

"I can't seem to tear myself away from the smell of hair spray, although I could do with some fresh air first. I pity the poor sods in there who don't smoke."

Hastings gave Doyle's lighted cigarette a pointed look but forbore to comment as they stepped onto the grass, listening to the unnatural silence. Few people in Little Trenton would sleep tonight if the siege dragged on. Anxiety blanketing the village, it was impossible to forget the relatives, or the hostages they agonised over.

"How are the relatives holding up?" asked Doyle abruptly. He had left it to the police to gain any useful information that could be gleaned about the hostages -it was important to know as much as possible about their likely reactions in a high-stress situation. 

"Well for the most part. Some of them can't understand why we aren't doing more, of course," Hastings added. Doyle gave an unsurprised nod, that a standard reaction from those left to wait and hope. "I've managed to locate a crisis counsellor, she's on her way."

His shoulder propped against the exterior wall of the van, Doyle's gaze was fixed on the middle distance. "I don't envy her her job."

"What about yours?"

"While it may not always look like it to you it's essentially the same as yours. Only we're allowed to fight on equal terms."

Hastings gave the younger man a thoughtful glance. "Not everyone in the Intelligence services has such a high regard for the police."

"I'm an ex-Met. man," said Doyle, giving a faint grin when Hastings failed to hide his surprise. "Besides, maybe they've been stuck next to your Chief Constable when he's in full flood. There's dead wood in every organisation."

"Not to mention incompetents," added Hastings sourly, the Chief Constable a constant source of embarrassment to those under his command.

"We don't get those in CI5," said Doyle, extinguishing his cigarette, knowing it was the last he would smoke.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't - one way and another."

"Don't look so worried, there are none in this team. I'm going to be staking my life on it, along with those of the hostages. We'll go in at eleven-thirty - if nothing breaks before then. While the kids have piped down for now, that won't last. There's too much tension inside a small space and Logan's on record as having a short fuse. With one of the hostages showing signs of cracking already a long siege is out of the question." 

"I'll notify the emergency services to stand by."

"I like a positive thinker."

"For the gunmen," reproved Hastings. Beginning to get the man's measure Doyle gave an appreciative grin. "What about the generating board. Do you want a temporary power cut?"

"No, it will only spook the gunmen. But Gilmour mentioned that the village often gets power fluctuations - something to do with being on the edge of the grid. Four minutes before we go in I want three slight reductions a minute apart if it can be arranged. Bodie will recognise the sign."

Hastings eyed him doubtfully. "Will that be enough?"

"It'll have to be. I'll be in touch."

Back at the hairdresser's, Doyle found Anson with his feet up, checking the racing results, Catchpole making a valiant attempt to do the crossword and Thompson looking self-conscious in the police constable's uniform which had been found for him, arguing with Burrows and Taylor about wearing the flak jacket Burrows was holding.

"I'm not going to - " Thompson faltered under Doyle's narrow-eyed glare, picked up the jacket and stalked off to the far end of the salon; after a glance in Doyle's direction the others followed him.

"You're frightening the children, Ray," murmured Anson, uncurling from his seat. "We all deal with the waiting in our own way. They're not to know you're always this stroppy."

After a dangerous moment, Doyle slowly exhaled. "I'm riding them hard, I know," he conceded heavily. "But - it's like running a bloody creche. It's a wonder they don't need their cocks held when they take a leak." He cast a disparaging glance at the group gathered as far from his biting sarcasm as it was possible to get.

"Not Tony or Burrows," said Anson firmly. "And Thompson and Taylor would do better if you'd ease up. Do those two know you and Bodie used to be teamed?" Taking Anson's point, Doyle contented himself with a speaking glare. "With all those women and kids around Bodie won't try anything stupid," Anson continued, Bodie's propensity for action rather than a waiting game as notorious as his success rate was envied.

One hand curled in his hair, as if about to uproot a handful, Doyle pulled a face. "I know, I know. I'm bein' a real bastard. But the tension inside that shop has gone beyond the dodgy stage. In a space that small with eleven hostages there could be a bloodbath with no more than one shot. We'll go in at eleven-thirty - if nothing happens before then."

"Time for a cup of tea while you brief us, then," said Anson cheerfully. "What delights have you got planned for Tony and me," he added as they approached the others, making his acceptance of Doyle's authority a public gesture.

Doyle jerked a thumb in the direction of the two Uzis. "That's your speciality - and Tony's not far behind you. You'll be covering the front. Thompson, don't forget that when you're parking the car. Oh, and forget what you've been taught. I want a lot of tyre spin and drama when you pull up. If we can get their attention on the getaway car - even for a couple of seconds - it'll be enough to give us the edge. We can't risk using the stun grenades. Start up at eleven twenty-nine. Dozy as they are I don't want to give them any more time to think than we have to."

"No problem," said Thompson.

"I know," nodded Doyle, "that's why I picked you. But no heroics. Leave the keys in the ignition, and use the door on the passenger side. The greengrocer's will be open. Find yourself a few sacks of potatoes for cover."

"I thought he insisted on locking it up," remarked Burrows.

"He did." Doyle swallowed his tart reply and found a carefree grin from somewhere. "What he doesn't know won't upset him. Taylor, I need someone to cover the back - just in case. Don't do what I once did and shoot some old dear's moggie when it snuck up on me..."

"You killed a cat!" exclaimed Taylor in delight.

"Not on purpose. But you know how it is. Cowley wasn't at all happy at the compensation CI5 had to pay - or the bad publicity. The public are very anti cruelty to animals."

"What about people?" asked Taylor flippantly.

"Depends who you kill," said Doyle with no humour at all.

"What about me?" asked Burrows with a hint of aggression.

"Don't worry, none of our lot will have a chance to shoot you. You and I are going in through the attic."

"You!" exclaimed Anson, although surprise was mirrored on every face.

Doyle subjected them to an unexcited survey. "Do you know anyone with a better average on the range? No, nor do I. Andy's coming with me because he's the next best on the Squad. We'll go up in a minute and start picking our way through the plaster. By the time Thompson roars up in the car we'll be at the foot of the stairs at the back of the storage area. Clear? Good."

"You were invalided out, Ray," said Anson, realising that no one else present felt equal to tackling Doyle on the subject.

"True. But my shooting average hasn't changed. With eleven hostages doing their damnedest to get in the way, I want the best we have inside. I'll try not to trip over my own feet. Andy?"

"There isn't any point me complaining, is there?"

"Not a lot," Doyle agreed cheerfully. "But you can take the front with Tony if it worries you and Anson can follow me in."

"Not with his record with a handgun, he can't," said Catchpole immediately.

"Thanks, partner."

"Well even I'm better than you."

"And I'm better than you," pointed out Taylor.

"There's just one problem," interrupted Doyle mildly, displaying a patience he was far from feeling. "The pair of you - Thompson, too, while we're on the subject - are built like shit outhouses. We don't want to 'ave to demolish the whole ceiling to get you through. Besides which, I've no intention of putting it to the vote."

"Ray is the smallest," Taylor said to the others, earning himself a dark look from Doyle which he was happily oblivious to as he turned to deposit his beaker in the bin.

"But perfectly formed," breathed Anson, causing everyone including Doyle to crack up.

"I'll have a word with you later," Doyle threatened. "OK, is everybody happy?"

"Ecstatic," drawled Burrows, having decided it was time Doyle gave up his pretensions to know it all.

"I'll get off to the car," said Thompson. Tucking his RT in the slightly too small uniform jacket, he paused at the door. "You haven't mentioned Bodie's part in this rescue," he said to Doyle.

"Apart from knowing we're on our way in by the lights, I doubt if he'll have one, trussed up the way he is. But he'll find a way to make sure the kids aren't in the line of fire."

"But he's - "

" - expendable. Like the rest of us. That said," added Doyle pleasantly, "I'll be highly annoyed if anyone comes back with more than a splinter. Right, I'm going to take a leak. I'll see you in the attic, Andy."

"You'll see me outside the bog," returned Burrows. "All this tea drinking's playing havoc with my bladder."

"OK, but don't forget to leave the seat down - we don't want to abuse Mrs Winstanley's hospitality." That sally greeted with genuine grins of appreciation, they split up.

The problem duly relieved, Doyle nimbly climbed the metal ladder which was fixed to the loft hatch before fishing out the heavy-duty torch he had tucked inside his jacket, the loft left unlit lest any betraying light spill into the Hyrares flat from the peep-holes Anson had made.

"How's your night vision?" Doyle murmured, hoping Burrows's obvious confidence in his own abilities would prove to be justified.

"Terrific. My mum insisted I always ate my carrots."

"Now there's a thing, so did mine." 

Mentally pacing out the distance as they moved along the joists, Doyle silently stepped from one to the next, marvelling at the junk people thought it worth storing. Light from the torches picked up the thick, soft dust which blanketed every space and surface, soft clouds of it stirred by their movements; motes danced in the torchlight, particles prickling their sinuses. Stifling his second sneeze, Burrows gave Doyle a glance which combined apology and wariness.

His mood mellow now the waiting was over, Doyle sniffed sympathetically, wiped his nose on the back of his hand in lieu of a handkerchief and went over to where a very grimy Phipps was squatting. 

"Not a peep from the flat," Phipps breathed. "I'll call through if I hear anything. You owe me for this." He had long since perfected an expression of martyred outrage, his dignity unimpaired by the dust clinging to him.

"Allergic to work's more like it. Thanks, mate." 

Doyle called through to Hastings before checking with the rest of his team. Satisfied that everyone was in place with half a hour to spare, he and Burrows settled themselves by the view holes Anson had made in the plaster above the Hyrares bedroom.

"I hope the bedsprings don't squeak," remarked Doyle, switching off his torch, the dust-clogged darkness seeming impenetrable for the first few seconds.

"At least the bed hasn't got legs. I had a very nasty experience in a bed with legs," offered Burrows, equally deadpan.

Momentarily side-tracked, Doyle turned. "Yeah? No, you can tell me later. You'll 'ave to keep it clean, mind. Bodie's easily shocked."

"Who'll go in first?" asked Burrows, suspecting he already knew the answer as he carefully worked on enlarging the tiny aperture, every minute sound echoing like a pistol shot in his ears.

Doyle, however, seemed unperturbed. "Me. Don't worry. I've never lost a partner yet and I don't see any reason to create a precedent for you. Slow down, Andy. The state this building's in the whole ceiling will collapse if we're not careful."

That the least of his worries right now as he wondered why he had agreed to follow an invalided-out old crock into a death trap, Burrows kept his doubts about Doyle's ability in the field to himself and did as he was told - for the moment.

 

Waiting, with twenty minutes to go, Anson checked the Uzi's sights once more before sparing his brooding partner a glance. "Doyle's right - it would take a black hole to accommodate your shoulders."

"Don't exaggerate. I've had enough of Mr Raymond-bloody-Doyle insinuating I can't do my job. How does he think I survived this long - luck?"

"If he didn't trust you you wouldn't be here. Doyle gets under everyone's skin - including Cowley's - but he'll get the job done. You have to learn to pick your moments with him, that's all. He's a bit edgy right now."

"He's handled sieges before. He's certainly lectured us about them enough. Or can't he cope with the real world?"

"He can cope," replied Anson, an unlit cigar between his teeth. "But because he's human he finds it difficult to regard this as just another job when his partner is one of the hostages."

"Ex-partner," corrected Catchpole, tired of having the legend of 3.7 and 4.5 pushed down his throat.

"You'd better hope Bodie isn't. Our lives could depend on it."

"I don't envy the hostages if Doyle has to choose who to save."

Anson spared him a brief glance. "Do you really believe that?"

"No," Catchpole admitted grudgingly. "It isn't a choice I would relish."

"I'm glad to hear it." While Anson's tone was dry, he grinned, yet to regret his decision to be partnered with the younger man.

"I must have been mad to join this three-ringed circus. Just think, I could be working in a nice warm office in the City, worrying about how to avoid a heart attack before I'm thirty-five."

"Instead of which you're turning blue while you're sat ten feet up a tree. Never mind, you can buy me a pint when this is over."

"Couldn't we drink something civilised like gin?" enquired Catchpole plaintively.

"It was gin I had in mind."

"There's just one thing worrying me about Doyle taking the lead in this op.," mused Catchpole, trying and failing to find a position of comfort in the fork of the branches. 

"He's still the best I know with a handgun. Tony, for god's sake! If you don't stop fidgeting you'll fall out of this bloody tree."

"You'll make someone a wonderful mother. It's all right for you, I'm going numb. No, that isn't what's worrying me," continued Catchpole, his eyes never leaving the shop front. "But as Doyle isn't officially listed as being on active duty, is he armed?"

"Of course he's - " Belatedly realising it was a minor detail no one seemed to have considered, least of all Doyle, Anson reached for his RT just as the front window of the chemist's was shattered by the roar of the shotgun. 

 

oOo

 

His bladder full to bursting, hungry, thirsty and with a headache from the incessant noise of the baby, Bodie gave the straight-backed figure sitting next to him a look of exasperated respect. To listen to ex-Corporal Williams you'd think he'd taught Monty all he knew about tactics. But if he doesn't pipe down soon he'll find himself being blown out of existence.

"Not now, sir," he murmured. The screaming of the baby as relentless as a fretsaw, he frowned, only to relax when Miss Williams took charge, her no-nonsense manner quickly producing a silence of sorts.

Glancing round, Bodie checked the rest of the hostages. Mrs Carstairs, eighty if she was a day, was cuddling Tripat Hyrare whilst regaling the story of Cinderella, which epic Mr Pargeter, a spritely seventy-six year old, seemed to be enjoying more than Tripat, whose first language was Punjabi. Cindy Smith, her face blank, seemed oblivious to her baby's welfare, while Mr and Mrs Hyrare were squashed at the back of the group, the pharmacist in considerable pain from his arm, which the man called Tig had broken several hours ago. The Hyrares small son was temporarily immobilised between them, Harish's propensity for wandering having led to Bodie being beaten and tied up when he went to the boy's rescue.

Knowing CI5 would be outside, Bodie tried to clear his mind of inessentials. Sit tight and wait it out was the standard procedure in a siege situation; keep a dialogue going and try to negotiate. Unfortunately the negotiating time was running out. Of the three gunmen, only the one called Mike posed no problems, his crushed hand and near comatose condition making him easy prey after the injection of morphine Tig had forced Hyrare to administer. Johnny, the shotgun on the counter top beside him where he sat, was drifting on the mixture of methadone and amphetamines he had been eating like Smarties. While they would slow his reaction time, the drugs made him unpredictable. But it was Tig who was the real danger: a firecracker of a man, liable to jump any and every way, he was as cold-eyed as when it had begun. It was Bodie's belief that knowing there was no way out, Tig was prepared to kill as many people as he could before he was killed himself. On the telephone to the mediator, the fingers of Tig's free hand drummed a melody on the counter top which only he could hear.

"I don' give a fuck abaht your problems. You ge' the car and money here before midnight or I'll send out the first kid -a bit at a time."

Tension rippled through the hostages. Woken when Mrs Carstairs's arms tightened protectively around her, Tripat began to grizzle in a hopeless kind of way, waking the baby, who started to cry again. Bodie's jaw tightened.

Without warning Logan lost any semblance of control. "That's it! That's fuckin' it!" A promotional box containing plastic slides, clips and combs was swept off the counter. A plastic comb stung Harish's cheek and he gave a wail - of shock rather than pain.

"You stupid ol' cow," yelled Logan at Miss Williams. "If you can't keep that fuckin' brat quiet, I can!"

Mr Williams half rose before his rheumatic joints let him down. "Listen, son, there's no need for all this..."

"You ain't my fuckin' father!" 

Hurtling over the counter top, Logan's punch connected with Bodie's shoulder as Bodie lurched sideways into Mr Williams, knocking him out of harm's way. The blow caused Bodie little damage but he gave a theatrical grunt, about to capitalise on Logan's off-balance state when Harish Hyrare, having slipped eel-like from his mother's restraint, vomited down Tig's leg the packet of dried bananas he had been surreptitiously eating.

"You disgustin' little git!" Logan's slap sent the boy flying in one direction, his wooden truck narrowly missing Mr Pargeter as it flew in the other.

The sound level was close to unbearable, all the hostages more or less vertical when Johnny fired the shotgun, somehow missing everyone. Glass flew everywhere, shampoo and conditioner spraying out in a slippery, sweet-smelling ooze over the hostages as the shattered bottles and containers on the shelves behind them exploded.

Cindy Smith's nerve finally snapped and she hurtled through the press of bodies as Logan reached for the Walther tucked in the back of his waistband. "Leave us alone!" Launching her six and a half stone body at Logan, her fingers were hooked into talons, her face unrecognisable.

Bloody women, thought Bodie, committing himself to a leap at the Walther while knowing the action would land him in the crossfire between Tig and the shot-gun Johnny held. Ray was going to be as mad as hell about this. Amidst the bedlam of screams and shouts the shotgun roared again. Bodie's feet went from under him and he lost consciousness.


	16. Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

Scooping up the Walther the dead man had dropped as he reholstered his own Browning, the RT was already in Doyle's other hand. "Medics and back up in now." To Anson, who arrived almost before he had finished speaking, Doyle added crisply, "Get some wopsies in here to help with the kids. No, worry about the living first, eh?" he said to an ambulance man ho had bent to examine Logan, pointing to the young girl splattered with Logan's blood who, rooted to the spot, was vibrating like a leaf in the wind, guttural sounds forcing their way from her throat, her eyes still wild.

"Andy, I need your jacket to cover his head." Doyle jerked a thumb at Logan, his eyes still scanning the crowded shop which stank of toiletries, urine and blood, his every emotion under rigid control when he failed to spot the one person he was looking for. And all the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty together again... Worry about the living first, he reminded himself.

Trying not to dwell on the fact that his second best jacket was busy soaking up the contents of a stranger's skull, Burrows swallowed hard and dodged the ambulance men carrying out another of the gunmen whose bloodied hand was cradled against his chest. The third man, the one both he and Doyle had shot, had a doctor crouched at his side, fixing up an IV. Burrows looked away to find Doyle glaring at him.

"What's your gun doing stuck in your waistband?"

Mentally reliving the split-second when, behind Doyle, he had recognised the choice Doyle faced of taking out Logan and saving the skinny kid now in deep shock, or of taking out Carstairs and saving Bodie, Burrows swallowed his sharp retort, suddenly seeing behind Doyle's irritable expression. Burrows's sights blocked by Doyle, his own shot had been half a second too late to save Bodie. Burrows wondered if Doyle would blame him for that - or for the fact that the choice had had to be made. "The safety catch is on," he replied mildly.

"Which means a grateful member of the public won't shoot their foot off straight away," snapped Doyle, his point reinforced when a small Indian boy, who smelt of vomit and urine, started climbing up Burrows left leg grabbing for the intriguing object just out of his reach. Hoisting the boy up Doyle thrust him into Burrows's reluctant embrace and went to deal with the next set of queries, this time from Hastings's Press Officer.

"Hello," said Burrows weakly, his experience with children minimal. "Where's your mum? Is that her? Great. Are you OK?"

"Truck," said the boy, wriggling furiously.

Unaccustomed to obscenities from three-year olds, Burrows's jaw sagged until he followed the direction of the pointing hand, spotting a wooden toy between a pair of stoutly brogued feet. "Oh, your truck. Go to your mum and I'll get it for you," he said feebly, handing Harish over to a liquid-eyed lady who already had her arms full of small girl but who somehow managed to accommodate her son, scolding him in a staccato, incomprehensible rush of speech.

Collecting up the toy, having wanted to check that it was covered by nothing more ominous than shampoo, Burrows returned it to an ungrateful Harish. Solidly constructed, the toy looked none the worse for its adventures, Harish wheeling it up Burrows's arm until his mother carried him away.

About to join those attempting to move the small knot of pensioners huddled together in the corner, Burrows stopped in his tracks when it dawned on him that the position of the truck could explain why Bodie had vanished so precipitately. His tunnel vision widening, Burrows ignored Doyle, who was snapping out instructions, to concentrate on the small crowd close to where he had picked up the toy. Peering over an elderly lady's shoulder, Burrows gave a wide grin before he swung round, his expression urgent. 

"Ray, over here!"

Finishing his muttered conversation with one of the detective inspectors, Doyle turned and scrunched over the detritus on the floor. Braced for whom he knew Burrows must have found, Doyle was oblivious to the fact that those hostages who remained drew away from him, uneasy in the presence of such an efficient killer. What Doyle saw as they parted ranks drained the remaining colour from his face before it flooded back. He couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it, so certain had he been that Bodie was dead.

Sat in a semi-circle of admirers, a pink-cheeked old lady dabbing ineffectually at the swelling cut over his right eyebrow, a frail but verbose old man telling him he was a hero, Bodie gave his partner a look of relief, anxious to escape his fan club.

"You cut things a bit fine, didn't you?" he remarked.

"Get the rest of these people out of here," Doyle commanded a police constable, his voice almost unrecognisable. He made no attempt to approach Bodie. "You stupid bugger, trying a stunt like that. Anyone would think you were James Bond!"

"I can't see what all the fuss is about," returned Bodie mildly, high on the euphoria of finding himself alive thanks to a three year old's toy truck and a collision with the counter.

"Oh, you can't." Doyle's deceptive calm broke. While he didn't raise his voice, his stream of invective as his relief found a safe form of expression drew tsks from the old age pensioners outraged on behalf of their saviour.

Doyle's tirade left Bodie himself with a wide happy grin, Bodie too jubilant at his unperforated state to appreciate the warning signals. 

"Calm down, mate," he soothed as he got to his feet. "It worked, didn't it?" He compounded the felony by giving Doyle a cocky grin.

Doyle's left hook coming from nowhere, Bodie dropped like a stone.

 

It was blissfully quiet when Bodie recovered consciousness, although he found the floor no more comfortable on this occasion than on the last. "What happened?" he mumbled unoriginally, discovering a place on his jaw to add to his list of sore spots. Recognising the expression on the face hovering above his own he made no attempt to resume the vertical.

"I hit you." While Doyle's tone was brusque and unapologetic, his unsteady fingers were gentle as he investigated the extent of Bodie's injuries. Discovering nothing worse than cuts, bruises and a bullet crease on Bodie's left biceps, Doyle sank back on his heels. "You'll live, so you can stop skiving and help with the clearing up op. You smell terrible," he added dispassionately.

"It must be the conditioner I'm using," Bodie remarked, his fingers tightening around the hand clasping his own out of anyone's line of vision. Sitting up, he gently probed swelling flesh. "You could have broken my jaw. Are you all right?"

"Fine. Which is more than you deserve to be. You behaved like a rank bloody amateur."

"If he hadn't Mrs Smith would be dead," protested Burrows, returning in time to hear that. "From what the other witnesses are saying if it hadn't been for Bodie - "

Doyle rose to his feet with a speed which made the younger man take an involuntary step backwards before holding his ground. "What the fuck would you know about it? When you've survived five years on the streets I might listen to you, until then - " Doyle stopped even before Bodie's quiet, "Ray - "

"I'm sorry, Andy. You did well. In fact, given how badly placed you were with me in your sights, you did a bloody fine job. That was nice shooting."

"So I hear," remarked Cowley, crunching over the littered floor. "I'll have a word with you later, 7.7," he added to Burrows in obvious dismissal.

Having been anticipating the forthcoming conversation, given Doyle's truculent mood, Burrows left with some reluctance, spurred only by a questioning glance from Cowley and a warning gesture from Bodie's head.

"Now, 4.5, perhaps you'll be good enough to explain the three accounts of CI5 brutality and the two complaints about appalling language I have received - all directed at you."

"Not right now, no."

An unsteady vertical and distressingly aware that his cords were soaked in an unsavoury mixture of spilt shampoo, conditioner and vomit, Bodie decided it was time to take charge. "There was no brutality, sir." He gave an involuntary wince as he opened his mouth too wide.

"Really? You consider agents brawling in public to be an every day occurrence?"

"We're not agents."

Brought up short by Doyle's clipped and inimical tone, Cowley paused. "No, you're not," he allowed, "which fact will add substantially to the paperwork on this one. Medical staff are with the hostages now, although only two - a Mr Hyrare and Mrs Smith - seem to require hospitalization. The rest are being escorted to their homes, with the exception of Mr Smith, who will be staying at the vicarage while he cares for his son. Mrs Hyrare and her children will be there, too."

"I don't envy the vicar his house guests," murmured Bodie.

Cowley ignored the interruption, his attention remaining on Doyle as he assessed his mental fitness for duty. "I understand Mrs Smith was to have been the first victim. It was a near thing."

"Very," confirmed Doyle, remembering his unwanted responsibility as team leader, his only wish to find somewhere quiet and fuck some sense into his bone-headed other half. "Bodie, I'll see you back at the flat. Get that bullet crease seen to."

"Where do you imagine you're going?" enquired Cowley.

"Unless you intend to relieve me of duty, to check on my men, get a police guard on this place until it can be boarded up, pat the Chief Super. on the back, organise the taking of statements from those of the hostages who are fit enough and clear up the hundred and one other loose ends. I'm willing to admit to the brutality if it will get me out of it."

"I've no doubt you are but there's enough paperwork without adding to it. Besides, Bodie probably deserved it," Cowley added, earning himself an old-fashioned look from Bodie. "One question before you begin - I wasn't aware you were armed."

Fleeting amusement lit Doyle's tired eyes. "Nor was Anson, apparently. But as it only occurred to him three seconds before all hell broke loose no harm was done. It's lucky you carry a spare Browning and ammo in the Rover. As I remember that's in direct contravention of your own orders. Should I include that in my report? Sir."

Puzzled by the overt antagonism in Doyle's manner, Bodie touched him lightly on the arm, only to find himself being shrugged away as Doyle stalked out into the now bustling high street.

"Let him go," sighed Cowley. "He and I had a discussion earlier. I wasn't as tactful as I might have been."

"Intentionally?" asked Bodie, helping himself to a misshapen carton of apple juice from the depleted and much damaged stock before hoisting himself onto the counter, grimacing as his arm gave a twinge of protest.

"Not on this occasion. You should get that bullet crease seen to."

"A dab of disinfectant is all it needs," dismissed Bodie. He was disconcerted when, after searching the few goods that remained on the shelves for the necessary items, Cowley tackled the rudimentary first aid himself.

Tensing as the burn began to smart in earnest, Bodie wondered what lay behind the Scot's untypical behaviour, quite apart from his unlikely role of Florence Nightingale. In the past Cowley had proved himself to be congenitally incapable of sitting back and watching others do the work, yet he had left Doyle with the entire cleaning up operation. A messy business at the best of times, it was always worse when there was a fatality to account for.

"This cream is supposed to be good for burns," announced Cowley, having subjected various packages to a minute scrutiny. 

"Slap it on," said Bodie. Savoire-faire recovered, he took a fortifying swig of apple juice, wishing he had some brandy to go with it. He gave the silver flask Cowley handed him an approving beam before taking several large mouthfuls.

The arrival of the forensic team and photographers interrupted whatever the Scot had been about to say. "Aye, come in. You'll want to get on. Bodie, I'd like a word with you - my car."

Shrugging into his jacket, after a sad look at the ruined sleeve, Bodie gave an acquiescent nod, having no intention of going home without Doyle and even less of getting involved in all the minutiae of the aftermath of an operation. "As soon as I've had a le - Gone upstairs," he amended, his recent intake of fluid having reminded him of his full bladder.

A thin sleety drizzle made conditions outside unpleasant and Bodie hurried to Cowley's car, grateful for the instant warmth the Rover's excellent heater provided. With some reluctance he handed the flask back to its owner.

"What is it you wanted, sir?" he asked encouragingly when Cowley gave no indication of launching into speech. Receiving no immediate reply, he added, "I presume it's about my return to CI5 on a full coding."

"It is. Not under your old call sign, but as my number two. I don't have to tell you..." Cowley began a fluent, and to Bodie redundant, recital of his qualifications for the job.

Hearing him out, Bodie's expression betrayed none of its usual flippancy. "I appreciate the compliment, sir but I couldn't do it."

"I say otherwise."

"Then for once you're wrong, sir. Oh, I've held it together over the last few months because I've had to, but I'm not temperamentally suited to - "

"I know all I need to know about your temperament."

"Not everything. In the long term my appointment would be a mistake. For CI5 - and for me. And I bet Kate Ross backs me up."

That shrewd comment earned Bodie a lengthy survey. "Why don't you want it?" asked Cowley simply.

Events of the last twelve hours having clarified any lingering doubts, Bodie shrugged. "While I've handled the administrative side in the short term, I haven't enjoyed it much. I've been used to an active life - and being part of a team. Not just with Doyle, but part of a group. Your number two will be isolated by the nature of the position. As you are."

"Then I'll put you back in the field."

"To work solo?"

"Unless you're prepared to give a new partner a try, yes."

"We both know that isn't a possibility. Besides, I'm nearly thirty-five. Not over the hill by any stretch of the imagination, but at the level of operations I'm used to working on I'd have three or four years at best - if I didn't get myself killed first. I've lost something during my year away from the Squad - my edge, my commitment. Whatever you call it, I know there's a difference. But I've gained something too. I'm not the same man. I don't want the same things - or if I do my priorities have changed and those other things aren't as important as they used to be. I enjoy civilian life." 

"Are they your only reasons?"

"You must know they're not."

"You're referring to the fact you and Doyle are lovers," said Cowley, making it easier for him. Again, Bodie surprised him.

"We're more than that. How long have you known, sir?"

Too experienced to betray any emotion, Cowley tucked his flask away. "A while. You don't seem surprised."

Bodie gave a wry grimace. "Give me a little credit. With full access to every file but Doyle's and yours I started to wonder why Ray's was taboo. It finally occurred to me to call up my own file. It made interesting reading." The fact he had vented his outrage on the wrong target was something Bodie had almost come to terms with. But some of the anger which had swept through him upon discovering that his most carefully guarded secrets had been under the microscope remained. It wasn't easy to accept that Cowley had set his experts to probe and analyse his relationship with Doyle and then to decide it had no future and take steps to ensure that. A year in the wilderness because he hadn’t spotted them at it. While he knew intellectually that Cowley's actions had only exacerbated the difficulties between Doyle and himself rather than causing them, emotionally he was still coming to terms with that manipulation of his life.

"You took the news quietly." Cowley was at something of a loss, this far from the reaction he had expected from Bodie. He wondered briefly about the regret which flickered across his face.

"No, not quietly. I can understand your reasoning, of course. Perhaps I might have taken the same action in your shoes. But I hope not."

"Now see here... You're right, of course," Cowley acknowledged heavily. It wasn't an admission he would make to Doyle; it wasn't an admission he enjoyed making to Bodie, but with nothing left to lose he hoped honesty might serve his purpose where manipulation had failed.

"I have another reason for turning the job down," offered Bodie, feeling the same obscure sense of sadness and loss he experienced whenever he was alone with Cowley - that never again would he hold the older man in the unqualified respect he once had. Disenchantment had set in almost two years ago, recent developments only reinforcing it. But the regret was still fresh. There were few people he respected and it was hard to see one fall from grace.

"And what might that be?" asked Cowley stiffly.

"The fact you face mandatory retirement in under a year."

While it was oblique, by this stage Cowley didn't expect compliments from Bodie. "I've every confidence in my successor," he said gruffly.

"Good. I hope it's justified for the Squad's sake. You've already spoken to Ray, I take it?"

"Earlier today. He turned me down, too."

"Divide and conquer, eh?" said Bodie without resentment.

"It's worked in the past."

"It wasn't you Ray turned down, sir," Bodie pointed out quietly, "just the job."

"Aye... I made an error of judgment last year. But the non-fraternisation rule - "

" - gets broken about once a month - if only by heterosexuals. Perhaps you should consider changing it. When would you like us to leave?"

"I wouldn't," replied Cowley frankly, "but given that you have no wish to stay... I'd be grateful if the pair of you will stay on until the New Year."

"That shouldn't be a problem. Unless Ray's made plans to the contrary. Is that all, sir? Only I may as well give him a hand with the mopping up operation."

"You've both had a long day. Anson can take over the last leg," decided Cowley, conveniently forgetting that Anson's day had been equally lengthy. "What will you both do when you leave CI5?" he added abruptly.

"I've no idea," said Bodie with cheerful unconcern. "But knowing Ray it'll be something legal. 'Morning, sir."

 

Doyle said said all that was proper to Hastings and his duty finally done, trudged up the hill, only to discover that Cowley had repossessed his Rover and gone home. Wondering how he was going to do the same thing, Doyle turned and found himself nose to nose with Bodie.

"Hello again. All done, sunshine?"

"More or less." Devouring Bodie with his eyes, Doyle found it difficult to believe Humpty Dumpty had been put back together again. "I'm still recovering from those OAPs of yours," he added, with very little idea of what he was saying, never mind whether it made any sense. "But I managed to get them smoothed down in the end. Mind, it helped when Mrs Carstairs decided I had the look of her third son. I couldn't win over Mr Williams though. He was still muttering that I should be flogged for using such language in front of ladies when his sister packed him off to bed."

"He's right. What did you make of the sister?" asked Bodie as they strolled back down the high street to look for his car.

"Ah, she's a doll. Cowley should think about upping the age limit for Squad members. I'd back her against him any day of the week. Cool as a cucumber. It looks like we'll have to walk home," Doyle added resignedly when Bodie's car proved to be missing from where he had parked it.

Behind the casual glance Doyle threw at him Bodie recognised a sexual awareness flaring hotly between them. Doyle's clothing still bore witness to his trip through the attic, his hair whitened by plaster dust - even if he had lost the cobwebs which had been caught in his curls. Grimy, bestubbled, smelling of sweat and with his nose turning pink from the cold, he still filled Bodie's senses, this reality better than any fantasy.

"We could always doss down behind the bushes," he suggested, wheeling round as a figure loped out of the darkness; but it was only Burrows.

"I've been looking for you two everywhere. I've been nominated as your driver home, so sit back and enjoy the ride. The consensus of opinion is that the pair of you have earned it." Devoid of aggression, there was a trace of respect in Burrows's voice. In his mind's eye he could still see Doyle, whom he knew to be right-handed, take Logan out with a left-handed shot from a seemingly impossible angle - and with only a split second to decide whom to take out.

"We're not that decrepit," murmured Doyle, "though we appreciate the thought. D'you know what happened to Bodie's car? He claims he parked it here."

"Less of the claims. I parked it here."

Burrows shot Bodie a quick glance, relaxing when he recognised that cordial relations had been restored between the two men, although he found it difficult to imagine how anyone could have worked with Doyle so successfully for so long. "I'm afraid the locals impounded it before the gunmen even thought to ask for a getaway car. And as the pound is locked up for the night Cowley agreed we could hire extra wheels as we're short on space now the chopper's gone home. It's the red Jag. parked at the end of the parade. I won't tell you what Cowley threatened if it gets scratched."

"Then I'd better drive," said Bodie with glee, snatching the keys from Burrows. In the interest of dignity Doyle stopped himself from entering into an unseemly scuffle for them.

"Are you up to it?" Burrows asked in all seriousness.

Inwardly convulsed at the expression on Bodie's face, Doyle slung a confiding arm around Burrows's shoulders. "I'll see he drinks his hot milk before I tuck him up into bed. Give it a rest, Andy. This one's spoiling for a fight as it is. Get yourself home and grab some sleep while you can. If I know Cowley he'll have you up at the crack of dawn."

"He'll need to hurry then, it's gone four now."

When Burrows lingered, Doyle added reluctantly, "D'you need a lift?" He staggered when Bodie kicked his calf and spared his idiot other half a glare.

"I've already given you my initial report," said Burrows with unflattering haste. "I thought I'd cadge a lift with Thompson and Taylor if you don't need me."

Realising Burrows had as little desire to unwind in their company as they had for a gooseberry, Doyle subdued his look of relief. "Fine. We'll be off then. Take care of yourself - and thanks. You put in some good work today. You all did."

Quick to catch that note of finality Burrows shifted his weight from one foot to another. "You're not coming back to CI5. Ever, I mean?"

"That's right," agreed Doyle, shivering because his jacket offered inadequate protection against the biting chill.

"Cowley's kicked you off the Squad just because you lost your temper with Bodie?" There was the beginnings of anger behind Burrows's incredulity.

"Whoa, calm down. Of course not. In fact he conceded that Bodie might have earned it," added Doyle, dodging the clip Bodie aimed at his ear without even looking to see that it was being delivered.

"Then why are you off the Squad?" demanded Burrows.

"Because this was never more than a temporary assignment. I'm moving on." Sober now, Doyle took care to avoid Bodie's gaze, this a subject he would rather have discussed with him first.

"In a few weeks' time," Bodie added smoothly.

"You, too?" asked Burrows in obvious surprise.

"Me, too," agreed Bodie placidly, catching Doyle's eye and relaxing when he realised Doyle was smiling. "Though keep it under your hat for a bit. We'll be in tomorrow to finalise the reports. You'd better warn the others to have theirs ready. Right, we're off," he added, giving Doyle a gentle push in the direction of the car. 

"Home?" he checked as soon as they were alone in the warmth of the Jaguar's interior.

"Wherever."

Bodie waited until they were on the bypass before adding, "I meant your flat when I said home."

"Or yours. It's all the same." Turning in his seat so he could watch Bodie drive, Doyle added, "I might be slow but I get there in the end. I already knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. After last night I'd rather not waste any more of it pratting around. I'm just sorry it took me so long to admit the obvious."

Bodie smiled at the beginning-to-lighten horizon. "It was worth the wait. But I can't offer any guarantees, much as I'd like to."

"Nor can I. So we'll take it on trust."

The luxurious interior of the car insulating them against the elements, the motorway virtually deserted, Bodie shot him a quick look. "You trust me enough?"

Smiling, Doyle shook his head. "You daft sod. I always have. It's me I wasn't sure about. And if you were expecting to find the gearstick there maybe you should let me drive," he added pointedly, although his thighs parted as he arched his back, briefly delivering himself into Bodie's hand before subsiding. "Don't worry. It'll keep warm for you."

"Good. D'you want to get some sleep? I'll wake you when -"

"Do I look that tired?" enquired Doyle, his palm settling on Bodie's thigh, the contact undemanding as yet, but a promise of things to come.

"You look wonderful," said Bodie with unguarded honesty.

"My god, you have got it bad. But you didn't have to change your clothes for me - all I want to do is get you out of them."

"Don't you believe it. You didn't stick around long enough to smell 'em," said Bodie with feeling. "Luckily Anson had brought a tracksuit with him. Dunno why, mind, but I'm grateful. You don't want to know what my stuff was soaked in."

"I didn't think you were wearin' much under that," remarked Doyle, his hand inching upwards before pausing in its tactile explorations. "Maybe not. I'd rather have your full attention. I've been meaning to ask, what were you doing in a village chemist in the first place?"

The car travelling at an effortless ll5 mph, Bodie spared him a flicking grin. "I popped in to buy some KY on my way back from the Centre. Got as far as paying for it when all hell broke loose. And to add insult to injury I left the bloody stuff behind."

Doyle fished in a pocket, smugly waved a blue and white box under Bodie's nose.

"Where did you get that?"

"From the chemist's, of course. Do you know what's best about this?"

Expecting the worst, Bodie shook his head. 

"I had to borrow the money from Cowley to pay for it," said Doyle with glee.

The Jaguar swerved out of lane before Bodie regained control of the car. "You never told him what you wanted?" he said, aghast.

It took a moment but Doyle's better nature finally prevailed. "Course not."

"I mean, I know he knows about us but there's no need to make it obvious."

"You know he knows?"

"Blimey, this is starting to sound like one of those convoluted conversations Willis goes in for," decided Bodie. "Yes, I knew - before he admitted as much just now. You weren't going to tell me?"

"I thought it might put you off your stroke," muttered Doyle, not daring to be anything but flippant until he discovered exactly what Bodie did know.

Bodie gave him a wry look. "Too late for that. That happened when I realised the stunt he pulled on us last year," he added grimly.

"Ah." Doyle rubbed his nose.

"I suppose you weren't going to mention that either," continued Bodie without heat, although he reduced the car's speed because he wanted to check Doyle's expression.

"There didn't seem much point in two of us going off half-cocked. Besides, Cowley means a lot to you and..." Doyle trailed off into an awkward silence.

"Thanks," said Bodie softly. "After I read my file in August I was ripe for murder. You may have noticed." He still found it difficult to speak lightly of his near-rape of the man sitting at his side.

Doyle gave Bodie's thigh a comforting rub. "I wondered why you were so - He meant it for the best, I suppose. CI5's best," he added, anger still smouldering behind his seeming acceptance.

"That's history. Let it go, sunshine."

Doyle snorted. "I know what I'd like to do." 

"I think I've got a shrewd idea. Tell you what, if I guess right can I have you as the prize?"

"You can have me any time you like," Doyle returned absently. "But I should've spotted him at it, the bastard. I might have done if I hadn't been so screwed up myself."

"Which pisses you off the most - him fooling us, or you failing to spot him at it?" asked Bodie, his tone indulgent now, Cowley's importance in the scheme of things receding by the minute as he soaked up the reality of Doyle's presence.

"Know all," retorted Doyle. "You're right, of course. It's history."

"Water under the bridge," agreed Bodie with a suspicious solemnity.

"What's done is done," intoned Doyle, his expression lightening.

"You can't turn back the hands of time."

"Fate moves in mysterious ways," offered Doyle after a pause for inspiration.

"Kismet."

"You can't have that. 'S the same thing."

"All right, I surrender."

"Promise?"

Bodie just grinned again, but had to concentrate on the road ahead as they began to pick up a steady stream of early morning commuters.

"You told Andy you weren't staying on in CI5," remarked Doyle after a moment.

"Of course not."

"Not because of me?"

"I'd be a liar if I said you didn't have some bearing on the subject."

"All right, Jefferson."

"Eh?"

"He was the bloke who claimed he never told a lie, wasn't he?"

"I thought it was Washington."

"Well, whoever it was, I don't want you bollocking up your future on my account," said Doyle fiercely.

"Whatever I do to earn a crust won't affect what's between us," said Bodie with a serene confidence. "But Cowley would like us to stay on until the New Year. I said I'd check with you."

"I wondered what you meant by a few weeks. No problem, just so long as I know the end is in sight. Speaking of which, we're almost home."

"I had noticed."

"So you had," realised Doyle, contenting himself with a visual inspection of Bodie's groin now they were in London. "Think you'll last?"

"Longer than you," Bodie promised, turning the car into Albany Street.

 

The atmosphere charged with sexual expectancy, Bodie closed the front door to his flat by the simple expedient of leaning against it, his gaze never leaving Doyle.

"I learnt something today," said Doyle, his voice suddenly harsh. "Anything is better than you dead. I could've killed you myself, you fucking cretin. You nearly threw it all away. Come here!" His hands clamped around Bodie's head, he kissed him with a savage intensity, reliving those few minutes when he had thought Bodie was dead.

Fatigue and their location forgotten, they rutted against the door with the desperate fervour of the survivors of an otherwise extinct species before sinking onto the floor in an exhausted tangle.

"I haven't had it away in my socks for years," remarked Bodie, the draught whistling under the door preventing his slide into sleep.

Opening his eyes, Doyle gave a sniff and propped himself up onto his elbows, a slow grin appearing when he took in the picture Bodie made. "I'd rather you took your top and trousers off next time, but I'll let you keep your socks on if it makes you happy."

"You make me happy," said Bodie simply, busy disentangling himself from the remnants of his clothing, his arm and one sore wrist both throbbing again.

The feral savagery gone from his face, Doyle looked tired but at peace. "You have the unnerving habit of taking the words right out of my mouth." Leaning forward, he gently kissed Bodie's beginning-to-colour jaw. "D'you need any ice for that?"

"Nope. You want to get some sleep?" Bodie added.

Doyle glanced at his watch. "There doesn't seem much point now."

"That's what I thought. I'm going to have a soak in the bath. Wake me up if I haven't reappeared in half an hour."

"You've got yourself a date," Doyle promised, collecting up an armful of dirty clothes before going upstairs to his own bathroom where he showered and changed.

Entering the sitting room with a tray of food ranging from cornflakes to the cold pizza he had found in the refrigerator, Bodie saw that Doyle had dressed in clean jeans and a cream Aran sweater. Slumped on the sofa, he was watching _T.V. A. M._ When Doyle gave a revolted shudder at the mixture of food, Bodie began to munch his way through what took his fancy on the tray, half his attention on the flickering screen, the other half on Doyle. The crisp reporting of the announcer had little to do with events in the chemist's, or the adrenalin-packed seconds which had ended the siege. It was with no great sense of loss that Bodie heard that the second gunman had died, although he saw Doyle's mouth tighten.

"That's a first for Andy," remarked Doyle. "Though I don't suppose my contribution helped." His attention remained on a bubbly jingle for fruit juice that had just appeared on the screen.

"Depends on your point of view." Replete, Bodie pushed the tray away and handed Doyle the glass of scotch he had poured earlier, sharing it between them while his free arm encircled Doyle's shoulders. "Logan would certainly have taken out Cindy Smith if it hadn't been for you."

"While that bastard - " Doyle jerked a thumb at the screen, " - blasted you out of existence. I thought I'd stopped having to choose who could live and who must die. It's no thanks to me that you're sitting here."

It hadn't taken much insight to work out what was bothering Doyle. Bodie nudged him on the chin with his clenched hand. "You made the only choice there was."

"Bollocks to that!"

"It's what we've been trained for."

"It doesn't mean I have to fucking like it!" exploded Doyle, guilt eating into him as he surged to his feet, needing to move, if only to escape his own imagination, too aware that only a child's toy had kept Bodie alive while he stood by and allowed Bodie to be killed.

Bodie padded up behind him, taking him in a loose embrace. "I can't say I love the idea myself." The body resting against him stiffened in outrage before Doyle gave a reluctant snort of laughter and shook his head, his hands covering Bodie's where they had settled over his stomach.

"'S OK, I've said my piece. But I don't ever want to have to make a choice like that again," he added flatly.

"You won't."

Still edgy, Doyle turned to glare at him. "Oh, you can promise that, can you?"

"Absolutely. I don't plan to go in another shop until after Christmas. But I know what you mean," Bodie allowed, coaxing Doyle back onto the sofa. "I'd already decided I wanted out - the events of yesterday only reinforced that decision."

His brooding gaze on the Flintstones, Doyle's head turned. "Because of me?" he demanded, his expression fierce. But it was a different kind of ferocity.

"Yes and no. And don't glare at me like that, your face might stick like it. Life isn't clear-cut. Nothing's ever a simple black and white - except decisions like whether to have jam or marmalade on your toast," added Bodie reflectively.

"I must remind you about that tomorrow morning," remarked Doyle.

"Don't interrupt, I was being philosophical. I even had it all making sense."

"You'll be the first person who's ever managed that. No, go on," urged Doyle, nudging him with his elbow by way of encouragement.

"I hope you aren't expecting anything profound. It's just that you can't take one piece of the jigsaw and expect to see the whole puzzle."

"That's not bad on a full stomach and no sleep," conceded Doyle. "You think we're like a jigsaw?"

Taking one of Doyle's hands in his own, Bodie linked their fingers. "We fit, don't we?"

"In a manner of speaking," agreed Doyle with a lopsided grin. "Anyway, I've always liked puzzles."

"I'd forgotten that," Bodie admitted.

"So had I for a while."

"Right, now we've got that out the way, can I watch the last bit of the _Flintstones_ in peace?"

"I wonder about you sometimes."

"Yeah? So who is it who always switches on for _Tintin_?"

"That's different," defended Doyle, wriggling to make himself more comfortable next to Bodie.

"I had the feeling it might be. Sit still and shut up," Bodie commanded, unsurprised to feel the weight of the body pressed against him increase as Doyle slowly fell asleep while _T.V. A.M._ wound its way to a close.


	17. Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

Having debriefed Miles in tedious detail, Bodie went in search of some light relief. To his dismay everyone but himself seemed busy. Intent on avoiding Cowley, whom he knew to be looking for a substitute for a meeting in Whitehall at four o'clock, he took himself off to the gymnasium. The locker room empty, he abandoned hope of any entertaining conversation and delved into his locker for the clean tracksuit, socks and jockstrap he hoped he had left there. He emerged in time to hear Stuart's familiar tones.

"It's all very well you going round with a grin like the Cheshire Cat but if everything's so wonderful how come you're leaving the Squad?"

"That's my business."

Straightening in a hurry as he recognised Doyle's voice, Bodie caught his head on the metal frame of the locker and saw stars. When he was next in a position to notice, Doyle and Stuart had walked into his line of vision, the two figures reflected in the mirror on the opposite wall, a dogged Stuart cross-examining a resigned looking Doyle.

"But what will you do?" pursued the former.

"I dunno," admitted Doyle with no noticeable anxiety as he pulled off his boots and socks, tossing them into the locker behind him.

"Look, mate, this is me, Stuart, you're talking to. Is everything all right?"

"You'll give me a complex at this rate," Doyle warned, hauling off his tee shirt.

Bodie's attention was on Doyle's hollowed diaphragm, the pattern of hair arrowing down the flat belly and the arch of the prominent ribs, enjoying the play of muscle down Doyle's thin-fleshed back as he turned to toss his tee shirt on top of his boots before unzipping and removing his jeans. His briefs caught in the cleft of his buttocks, he reached back to release the fabric before taking them off and searching for his jockstrap.

"Maybe so. This last couple of weeks... You've not been yourself." Stuart took an audible breath. "Is everything OK - between you and Bodie, I mean?"

Doyle tensed visibly before he turned, staring at his companion with an expression Bodie recognised all too well. "Why shouldn't it be?"

"I dunno," shrugged Stuart, "so don't start throwing a moody on me. You had a bad year. Anyway, if you need a loan, or a friendly ear you know where to come. I'm not slack-mouthed."

Doyle's grin was unwilling but inevitable. "You wouldn't recognise a snub if it got up and bit you on the arse, would you. I know you're not. At the risk of sounding boring, everything's great. Really."

His head cocked on one side, Stuart studied his companion for a moment. "Maybe that's what's so odd," he remarked. "I'm not used to you bein' all sweetness and light around the place. It's against nature. Is this what you're looking for?" He held out Doyle's jockstrap, watching with a total lack of interest as Doyle put it on.

Bodie wondered if more than Stuart's brain was made of wood, but didn't try to intervene. Stuart was probably the only agent apart from himself who was unfazed by an about-to-detonate Ray Doyle - and Bodie was prepared to admit his own lack of immunity on occasion.

"I'm happy. Any objections?" snapped Doyle, who was beginning to look harassed.

"You sure?" Dodging the balled-up socks thrown when Doyle finally realised what Stuart was doing, the other agent danced out of the locker room, still laughing.

"Crazy," murmured Doyle audibly, turning back into his locker to drag out his tracksuit which, as usual, was at the bottom of the heap.

Stalking his oblivious mate, Bodie delivered a less than loverlike slap to one taut buttock. "Stuart's a bigger nutter than me," he remarked dispassionately.

"No one's crazier than you," growled Doyle, hauling on a pair of navy tracksuit bottoms. "And stop eating me up with your eyes," he hissed in a different tone. "This is hardly what you can call a private place. Besides, it's degrading to be nothing more than a sex object."

"Yeah?" 

But Doyle's own mouth was beginning to quirk upwards. "I know, I know. 'S my fault - and yours - for going round looking like a honeymoon couple. But only Stuart would word a warning like that. Subtle he's not."

"It took you a while to catch on to what he was on about," Bodie pointed out unfairly, busy tidying Doyle's locker while the other man fastened his trainers.

"If it bothers you, you know what you can do, don't you," snapped Doyle, slipping one hand beneath his waistband to rearrange himself more comfortably within the athletic support.

One shoulder propped against the locker next to Doyle's, Bodie resisted the temptation to help him. "Nothing bothers me at the moment," he said with truth, having spent a blissful two weeks with a Doyle so sunny-tempered that he was barely recognisable. But it was a relief to see that things were getting back to normal.

Instead of snapping again, Doyle's expression softened. "You're getting as daft as me. But I'm on duty until six."

"So am I. And as I've no intention of being stuck in Whitehall all night I'm hiding down here out of Cowley's way. What's your excuse?"

"I came down for a workout to get rid of some of the kinks. Come with me?" invited Doyle, in what to the uninitiated would have sounded a casual tone.

"OK," agreed Bodie with barely a pause. But following Doyle into the gymnasium he was noticeably quieter than usual.

Aware of Bodie's unease Doyle pretended to ignore it, chatting easily while they warmed up. Glad that they had the place to themselves for the moment, he left it to Bodie to move onto one of the large practice mats.

It was their first workout together since Bodie's deliberate attack on Doyle back in August and both men were conscious of the fact, if for different reasons. Unsurprised by the ease with which he took the first fall, Doyle stood over his prone partner, glaring down at him.

"Save your breath," Bodie advised him, his expression wry as he allowed Doyle to pull him to his feet. "I know I was pussyfooting around. This time I'll wipe the floor with you."

"You're welcome to try," said Doyle with a cocky little grin, springing back out of reach when Bodie's leg hooked out in an attempt to bring him down.

The next bout was a great deal faster and both men were breathing heavily by the time Bodie finally took the second fall. "Happy now?" he demanded, having genuinely exerted himself.

"I might be if you hadn't consistently avoided my shoulder. I gave you enough chances at it," retorted Doyle, massaging his ribs.

"I give up," sighed Bodie, rolling his eyes.

"I noticed. You OK?" Doyle added in a different tone.

Bodie smiled in reassurance. "Yeah. But I'd forgotten what a tricky little bastard you can be. You've changed your technique," he accused.

"Matter of having to. The shoulder will stand up to a good bit but..." Doyle shrugged. "Brian's been giving me a hand when he can but I need more practice time - and the right partner." All eyes and hair, he looked about nineteen as he stood there, pointedly not making the request.

"All right," sighed Bodie, allowing himself to be conned. He viewed his companion's sunny smile with distrust. "How much more practice time?"

"At least an hour a day - work permitting. The gym's usually empty first thing in the morning."

"Because sensible people are still in bed sleeping," grumbled Bodie, flexing his left leg to prevent it from stiffening. "All right," he conceded a moment later. "But I don't know why you have to pick on me."

"If I can't trust you to find a way for me to protect my shoulder and still win, who can I trust?" returned Doyle reasonably. "Look on the positive side, you only hurt the one you love."

"Someone buy you a book of clichés, did they?" asked Bodie, a pained expression in place.

Doyle just gestured to the mats. "Now you've got your breath back we'll have the deciding bout. I'll try not to bruise you too much."

"You and whose army?" scoffed Bodie, feinting to the left.

This time both men concentrated wholly on their workout, each attack and defence pulled only to the degree necessary to avoid serious injury. They were so immersed in the fight that they only became aware that they had attracted a small audience after Doyle hit the mat with a winded exclamation.

"Fuck!" he said, sitting up, furious with himself for being caught out by the oldest trick in the book. "I should've seen that coming."

"I know you should," agreed Macklin from the door. "How many times have I told you about that? But you're not doing badly. Not badly at all. That was a good bout. Now perhaps you understand what I mean when I talk about concentration," he added to the small group clustered behind him. "And learning how to have a decent workout without actually killing your partner." He gave Burrows a pointed look.

"You'd better remind Doyle about that," said Bodie, straightening with caution, aware he was going to be sporting some colourful bruises later. He massaged his stomach, shaking his head slightly when Doyle glanced up at him in silent question.

"You both look like you still have some life left in you yet," said Macklin callously.

Doyle crawled to his feet and gave him an unenthusiastic look, his forearm settling heavily on Bodie's shoulder. "We should've stayed home today," he said dolefully.

"Who d'you want us to murder?" Bodie added, flexing his back and eyeing those who had accompanied Macklin into the gym. It was with some satisfaction that he realised he and Doyle had just dispelled a few of the myths about has-beens.

"Take your pick," offered Macklin.

Meeting Burrows's wary gaze Bodie gave a slow, happy smile. "My pleasure. Unless you want him, Ray?"

A wolfish look of anticipation in place, Doyle shook his head. "Be a shame to spoil your fun. Besides, there are plenty left for me to choose from. I'll take Catchpole first," he announced with deliberate one-upmanship.

Smothering his grin, his well-hidden sympathy with the younger Squad members, Macklin selected Lisa, leaving Miles to Fields's tender mercies.

 

Showered and changed, everyone met up in the Red Lion to rehash the workout session. Aware from the noticeable change in manner of the younger Squad members that he and Bodie had shattered a few preconceptions today, Doyle felt pleased enough with his performance not to complain too loudly when Bodie appropriated his wallet to pay for the first round. He even kept a serious expression in place when Catchpole insisted on analysing every second of the bout he had lost.

"You let me take the initiative and I kept it because you expected a bloke ten years older and eight inches shorter to fade. I've got the psychological edge on you, Tony. First thing we'll work on is breaking it. Then we'll worry about Brian."

"Macklin!" Catchpole inadvertently swallowed the lemon pip which had been floating in his gin and tonic.

"It's been done," said Macklin cheerfully from behind him. "By Ray, for one." Doyle failed to look suitably modest.

"What's the secret?" asked Lisa, who was frankly using Burrows as a backrest, but her alert gaze gave her languorous pose the lie.

"I wouldn't recommend it," admitted Doyle wryly. "Brian was out to discover how I survived on the streets. He waited until it was obvious he'd caught me on the raw and kept on going. If it hadn't been for Towser I would've killed him. Sorry," he added with a grin, but whether for his failure or in belated apology to the instructor wasn't immediately clear. "You all put up a fine show today," he consoled.

"That's easy for you to say, you creamed us," said Burrows sullenly, still smarting from his defeats at the hands of men his senior, one of whom had been invalided out of the Squad.

"Not for long," remarked Bodie, returning to toss some bags of crisps onto the table. "Only while we can surprise you. Work out for too long with the same person and you get to know their tricks - and how to avoid or counter them. The odds are that Lisa will never be able to put Tony down in a workout but put her against a bloke with a similar build on the streets and my money would be on her - unless he's a top pro., of course. Ray's right. You're doing OK. Right, now we've patted your fragile egos... I'm starving and there's an Italian restaurant just round the corner. Who's going to buy me supper?"

"Doyle," chorused the well-rehearsed group, with one noticeable exception.

The evening was a considerable success, although as it wore on Bodie found himself bearing the brunt of the conversational burden with Macklin, the younger members of the group holding him in too healthy a respect to indulge in idle badinage while Doyle's attention was on some far off place. Knowing Doyle would share whatever great thought was preoccupying him sooner or later, Bodie concentrated on enjoying himself, something he would have thought impossible in Macklin's company even a couple of months ago. Assuming that he must have mellowed, it did not occur to Bodie that Macklin might have done.

 

"We forgot about Brian," Doyle announced into the darkness of the early hours.

Having been loved into a state of incoherency where he had come close to forgetting his own name, Bodie gave a contented wriggle. "And Cowley, and Jax, and - " A sharp prod dispelled a little of his contentment.

"I meant for CI5. Why hasn't Cowley ever thought of grooming Brian for the role of number two? He's had experience in plenty in the field. Damn it, he virtually ran the Hong Kong station for four years. Everyone knows Rennie was on the bottle."

"I wish you were," mumbled Bodie sleepily.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Every word," Bodie assured him. While he was willing to concede that there might be some life in him, he didn't want to waste it talking about Macklin.

"Then what do you think?"

Bodie reluctantly kicked his brain into gear. "Brian claims he lost his nerve."

"That can happen to anyone. It comes back - if in a different form. It happened to me."

"And me," said Bodie, able now to look the truth squarely in the face without cringing. "And I didn't have the excuse of taking three bullets."

"Maybe your scars hurt more though," murmured Doyle, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

"What was that for?"

"Because I felt like it."

"Well, that's all right then," said Bodie comfortably, slinging an arm around him. "Your shoulder isn't playing up, is it?" he added with a mixture of suspicion and anxiety.

"Aching, that's all. I'll survive. Want to arm wrestle to prove as much?"

"Aren't you tired?" asked Bodie plaintively.

"Nope," replied Doyle cheerfully.

Bodie gave a heartfelt groan as he abandoned any hope of sleep. "That's what comes of feeding you red meat. Which reminds me, you owe me - "

"I just paid you back," protested Doyle.

"Only in kind."

"Only?" After a short wrestling match, Doyle shoved away the pillow Bodie had thrust in his face and sat up, trying to repair the damage to the once neat bed without leaving it. "Come on, stop pissing around. What do you reckon about Macklin?"

"He might be suitable, I suppose," said Bodie grudgingly. Five minutes later he gave a defeated sigh and placed a firm hand over Doyle's mouth. "Enough. I'm convinced. He'll be perfect."

Untroubled, Doyle licked the palm gagging him. "It's rude to interrupt," he said severely when his mouth was freed. "Tomorrow we'll pull Brian's file while we've still got access to it."

"He'll kill us," breathed Bodie.

"Only if he finds out. And I don't intend to tell him. Then you can have a word with Cowley."

"Why me?" demanded Bodie indignantly.

"Why not?"

Unable to think of a suitable retort, Bodie changed the subject. "What are you doing with your foot?"

"Wait and see."

"I'm not sure I want to. Feet's kinky."

"Feets?" hooted Doyle with derision.

"Foots, then," amended Bodie, with the air of one humouring a pedant.

Wisely Doyle abandoned the conversation, allowing his actions to speak for him.

oOo

"You know what I don't understand," remarked Bodie, handing Doyle his pint.

"Einstein's Theory of Relativity? How they get all those bubbles in a bar of Aero? Why we always lose at least one sock when we go to the laundrette - correction, when _I_ go to the laundrette?"

"I went once," defended Bodie. "It was you who said you weren't going to have me ruin the rest of your clothes. Eat these and shut up," he added, thrusting a large packet of salted peanuts at his companion. "No, I know all that stuff - all I want to, anyway. I just can't believe that we didn't think of Brian before now." 

"Maybe it's because we thought he was sub-human," suggested Doyle, licking salt from his fingers.

"You could have something there. Not that I can ever see us becoming bosom buddies, mind."

"That's a relief."

"Quiet, you, I'm talking."

Failing to look suitably chastened Doyle took another handful of peanuts, lounging back in his chair while he idly scanned the almost empty pub. "So you think Brian has what it takes for the job?"

Bodie grinned. "And more. I have to keep pinching myself to make sure we're sitting here deciding Macklin's career for him. His file looks good. But we should get the all clear from Kate Ross before we put his name forward to Cowley."

Doyle stared at him in bug-eyed horror once he had recovered from his choking fit. "You want us to order Brian to go off for psychological evaluation? You've cracked under the strain," he added sadly, blowing his nose with less elegance but a comparable volume to Gabriel and the last trump.

"We've got the grading to order him to do it. We could send Fields and Ken and some of the other backroom staff to cover what we're up to in case it doesn't pan out."

"Which means we'll have Kate gunning for us for giving her all that unnecessary work," pointed out Doyle, yet to be convinced by Bodie's master plan.

"You're the one who suggested Macklin."

"Thanks, friend." Doyle took a reviving swallow of lager. "You could be right, though. It's taken me all these years to admit how good Kate is. I went to see her a few weeks ago. Before we sorted ourselves out."

"Yeah?" Carefully non-committal, Bodie helped himself to a handful of peanuts.

"She... helped," said Doyle lamely. "Made me realise how much anger - and resentment - I had tucked away."

"Of me." It wasn't a question.

Doyle nodded. "And of myself for failing to cope. But I don't think it's a problem any more. I had to tell Kate a few things, of course. About us."

"Cowley would have told her anyway," said Bodie calmly.

"Apparently not. Not that she was surprised - I suppose she had it down in black and white months ago," Doyle added sourly.

"From what I saw on my file, at least eighteen months," confirmed Bodie. "Still, if she helped..."

"She made me sit down and think - about why I couldn't give you any commitment this time round." Shamefaced, Doyle traced a pattern on the table top with a drop of spilt lager. "It felt strange, talking about private stuff to a stranger. Like I was betraying... But things had got to the point where I had to speak to someone. There were times when I could have..." He stared at one of his hands, knowing what damage it was capable of inflicting. "I could have beaten you to a pulp with pleasure," he muttered. "Talk about the thin line between love and hate."

Understanding too well, Bodie nodded, the only surprise was that Doyle should be admitting as much. "The main thing is that it helped," he said casually.

"You didn't need anyone," said Doyle, his tone making Bodie give a grin of comprehension.

"Oh strewth, don't start that 'I can handle everything myself' routine again. In case it's slipped your notice I had my catharsis." Bodie's gaze slid to Doyle's shoulder. He refocused only when a peanut hit him on the chin.

"What's that for?" he asked, although his sheepish expression made it plain he understood. "I wasn't wallowing," he added indignantly.

"Course not," agreed Doyle, his eyes warm with love. "Nor am I... now. The siege sorted out what was most important. I suppose that punch I delivered got rid of the last of it. Squared the debt, so to speak," he added wryly. "But I'm sorry about that. And for embarrassing you in public with that rollicking I gave you."

While it was two weeks late, Bodie knew the apology was sincere. "I wasn't embarrassed," he replied calmly.

"You weren't?" Doyle returned his half-raised glass to the table top without drinking from it.

"No. I knew you'd be a bit worried about me being a hostage, but not how much. Besides, you were justified - even if you couldn't have known it. I was showing off, feeling no end the hero playing to an audience. Stupid trying to kick an automatic out of someone's hand - I nearly got that girl killed." Bodie's grimace held no self-consciousness.

Doyle just saluted him with his glass, but his smile was blinding. "Maybe, maybe not. In retrospect I don't see what else you could have done. Burrows thinks you're a hero."

"No doubt you enlightened him."

"Nah, it doesn't do any harm to have a role model, and he couldn't do better than you."

Pinker than usual because compliments from Doyle were rarer than hen's teeth, Bodie buried his nose in his glass to gain himself time to recover. "Shouldn't need a role model at his age," he muttered gruffly. "That reminds me. What are we going to do about Andy - him being bi, I mean?"

Doyle gurgled into the dregs of his pint before setting the glass down, still spluttering a little. "I forgot to tell you. I had a word with him last week while he was driving me back from Plymouth."

"Oh, no." 

"I was subtle about it," Doyle insisted.

"That'll be a first. OK, what happened?" Bodie asked with resignation.

"Not a lot - except that when I steered the conversation round to the non-fraternisation rule he jumped about a foot."

"See, I told you!"

Doyle's grin broadened. "I know you did. But as usual you only got half the story. He fancied someone in the film theatre that day, all right - only it wasn't me, you berk, but Lisa."

"Not the way he was eyeing you up, mate," said Bodie authoritatively. "I recognised all the signs."

"No, you were feeling randy watching me and assumed he must be feeling the same. That was the day of his big revelation - Andy decided I would make a good father figure during the drive - " Doyle added in disgusted parenthesis. "Turns out he was all of a twitch in case he turned round and leapt on her. He's got it bad, poor bastard."

"You sure?"

"Positive. He hasn't got a chance, either. Lisa's got her sights set on her job, though I don't think she'd turn Catchpole down."

"How come you're up on all the gossip?" demanded Bodie, doing his best to steer the conversation away from his small error of judgment, uneasily aware of the embarrassing position he could have found himself in if he had gone to Cowley with his suspicions.

Doyle tapped the side of his nose in a knowing manner and gave a grin guaranteed to irritate.

"You're a cocky little sod. Well, here's something to wipe that grin off your face. Who's going to break it to Brian that he'll be enjoying a few sessions with Kate Ross?"

"We could toss for it."

"Not the way you rig the toss we couldn't."

"You mean you've never done that?"

"Yes, but then it's called using your initiative."

Life feeling very good, Doyle gave him a dark look. "I call it cheating, myself. Let's settle it with a game of darts."

"Best of three?"

"No, just the one. I've got plans for the rest of the evening. With you," Doyle added, lest there be any doubt.

"It's no good you trying to distract me with that sultry look," Bodie told him with a grin.

"I must be losing my touch."

"No, it's just that these are high stakes."

"One thing we haven't thought of... Brian might not want the job," announced Doyle, his gaze on the darts match between a couple of workmen from the building site across the road nearing its end.

"I think he'll leap at it," said Bodie decisively. "He's had enough R and R. He's getting stale because he's bored, only he's too stubborn to admit it. I'd like us to get someone in the post before we leave the Squad." Absorbing what he had said, he blinked and stared at Doyle before adding weakly, "We should decide when we're going."

"You don't need to - or not on my account," said Doyle quietly, trying to contain all his contradictory emotions.

"We've already had this discussion," Bodie told him severely. "If they ever audition for a Doubting Thomas I'll send you along, you're a natural for the part. But what about you, Ray? So far all we've done is talk about me."

"CI5 without Cowley..." Doyle shook his head. 

"Then we should decide when we're going to make tracks."

"Rather than Cowley making them down our backs, you mean? No point either of us pretending it'll be easy. We could set ourselves a cut-off date and stick to it," Doyle suggested doubtfully.

"New Year's Eve," said Bodie promptly. "Though I don't know how we're going to earn a crust. I could go back to playing poker, I suppose." There was little enthusiasm in the suggestion.

"While I make your sandwiches and wave you off each night? I don't think so. Besides, there aren't that many private card schools around. Word of your reputation must have spread."

"I am good," Bodie agreed modestly.

"At cheating."

"You know your trouble, you've got a nasty suspicious mind."

"Because I used to play poker with you."

"It doesn't solve the problem of what we live on, does it?"

"Something will turn up," said Doyle blithely.

Unaccustomed to such Micawberish sentiments from his partner Bodie gave a satisfied grin, that convincing him as little else could have done that Doyle was truly content. "You're probably right."

"I usually am. Right, let's grab the board before anyone else nobbles it. Loser tells Brian he's off to the trick cyclist."

"No, I'll be too busy sweating to enjoy the game. You can toss for it."

"Blimey." Touched by that gesture of good faith Doyle made the supreme sacrifice. "We'll tell him together."

"You're a mate."

"I'm an idiot. What are the stakes?"

Bodie just gave a wicked grin which left Doyle wavering between the pleasures of winning and the pleasures of losing.

 

Returning to their table after a lengthy game which Bodie finally won by shamelessly distracting Doyle, they found a glum-looking Jack Crane slumped in the third chair, munching the last of Doyle's peanuts.

"What brings you to this peasants hideout?" demanded Doyle.

"Don't ask." Stretching out his long legs, Crane told them anyway when neither man betrayed any signs of interest. "I've just been sitting in on an interview panel round the corner."

"For what?" asked Bodie dutifully.

"My successor. I'm leaving at the end of January - have to. My new contract starts on February seventh. I am not the flavour of the month."

"What's new?" grunted Doyle, who was impatient to give Bodie his prize.

"Did he go or was he pushed?" Bodie added in a stage whisper.

"Very funny. I've got a post in Saudi. Virtually wrote my own terms. You wouldn't believe the salary. Plus I get to select my own staff. It's running the same kind of outfit as we have at the Centre, but without the budgetary constraints or the bloody bureaucrats breathing down my neck. Magic," added Crane dreamily.

"You're joining the opposition!" exclaimed Bodie.

"Don't you start. I've had enough of that from Willis - and Cowley, who should know better."

"Why are you going?" asked Doyle.

"I've been at the Centre for eleven years. I'm getting stale. Well, you might deny it," Crane added when his claim was met only by silence.

"We'd like to," said Doyle. "The trouble is, you are - and it shows in the training. The content hasn't been updated since I was first there nearly seven years ago."

Crane's eyes narrowed in a combination of resentment and speculation at that blunt announcement. "I suppose you think you could do better?"

"Don't get broody. Not necessarily better, but different. Eighty per cent of the courses are about as much help out on the streets as learning to crochet. If it's true for CI5 it must hold good for everyone but the SAS - and they shouldn't need a refresher. The whole course is too army orientated."

Crane feigned sleep, this a familiar complaint of Doyle's. "Tell him, Bodie."

"Sorry, Jack, he's right."

Crane's look of reproach would have put a dying Caesar to shame. "Well, if I've been doing as badly as you two claim, how is it that no one has managed to satisfy the interview board during the five weeks they've been looking for my replacement?"

"Maybe they've been looking in the wrong places," said Doyle. "I bet a good seventy per cent have been ex-army men."

"I can't see what all the fuss is about," added Bodie airily. "The qualifications aren't anything out of the ordinary."

"Perhaps that's why you'd be a wash-out in the post. You're a good man in the field, Bodie, but as a tactician..."

Accustomed to regarding himself the equal of any situation, Bodie sat up in his chair.

"What about me?" asked Doyle, before his partner had a chance to speak.

"Apart from the fact you've got less diplomacy than a Chieftain tank, you mean? You'd never pass the physical, old son."

"How about you having a workout with me to prove the point?" invited Doyle, a glint of anticipation in his eyes. 

"Not right now," said Crane, unashamedly craven. "It's my task to disseminate skill, not prove my own."

"So I could do it." Satisfied, Doyle sat back on his chair.

"What about me?" Bodie demanded with a trace of indignation.

"No one thinks you'll have any problems. We'll split the job fifty-fifty, same as always, of course. How do we apply, Jack?"

"Are you serious?"

As so often in the past a brief glance between the two men was enough to confirm that they were in complete accord.

"Very," said Doyle. 

"There's only one vacancy for the head of the Centre."

"There was, you mean," said Bodie. "Two men, with different specialities would do the job better. We want this, Jack."

"Thank god for that," Crane sighed, before hastily burying his nose in his glass. As it proved to be empty, he had to put it down.

"Why do I get the feeling we've been suckered," murmured Bodie.

"I couldn't say," replied Crane with a broad grin. "But Willis owes me ten quid. He was convinced you'd turn it down flat."

"He'll be disappointed then," said Bodie. "Hang on, you mean he wants us for the post?"

"That's right. But only since he realised how much Cowley doesn't want you to have it. There's been a lot of in-fighting going on behind the scenes, everyone hoping to get their own choice appointed. Once word got out that you turned Cowley down everyone decided that one or both of you would be a good compromise - on the grounds that while you were bound to favour CI5, you wouldn't always dance at Cowley's bidding."

"Very flattering," muttered Doyle, glancing at Bodie again.

"Let's hope they don't regret the decision," said Bodie, his nod confirming he would work with Willis - if he must.

"Don't forget you'll be seeing quite a bit of Willis," warned Crane. "And Hunter of Special Branch, Moran from MI6 - and Cowley, of course. Though they aren't the only ones you'll have to worry about by a long chalk. You'll find quite a few of your old mob there, Bodie. Believe it or not the Centre isn't there for the sole convenience of CI5."

"Any more than it's there for the army and SAS," added Doyle with a bland smile. "How do we apply, Jack?"

"I'll see to that for you. I'll even give the pair of you a recommendation. Between you, me and the gatepost you'll be in a good bargaining position regarding terms."

"That's lucky," said Bodie. "If they want the best they must expect to pay for it. The annual budget will need to be reviewed, for one thing."

"I meant your personal terms." 

Bodie shrugged, Doyle looked amused.

"It's easy to tell you two have been cushioned from the real world," snapped Crane, who was still feeling defensive about his move. "You can't be more than five years younger than me. When you hit forty you'll realise you want a bit of luxury out of life."

Doyle glanced around the pub. "You mean this isn't it?"

"I give up," sighed Crane. "From what you've been saying it's obvious the pair of you have been giving the idea of running the Centre some thought on the quiet."

"As of five minutes ago," agreed Bodie.

A glance at Doyle was enough to assure Crane that they weren't joking. "You're going to be a bigger bastard than me," he told Bodie.

"Not me. I'm the bloke who'll dry their tears after Ray's been rotten to them. Type-casting, that'll be," Bodie added, grinning at his other half, who gave him a two-fingered salute.

"I half wish I wasn't leaving the country so I could be around to see it," said Crane. "George will kill me when he discovers you've been poached. He hasn't given up hope of convincing you to stay in CI5."

"George! You mean we get to call Cowley George?" A delighted grin spread across Doyle's face.

"The job's ours," added Bodie. "On the strength of which, you can buy the next round, Jack."


	18. Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

Having conceded in the privacy of Bodie's bed that they would need to do their homework to win the job they had both admitted they wanted, Bodie and Doyle set to work with a will. By the following evening they had a master plan prepared.

"I know we've forgotten something," said Bodie, his hair sticking up in small tufts by the time he sat back, gloomily staring at the scribbled lists as if hoping the omission would leap up at him.

"Let's run through it and find out." Doyle scowled when his partner removed the list conveniently placed on the coffee table. "To start with you'll run the survival courses - after you've upgraded them, and head the firing range team, with me heading small arms and tactics. Forensics will be Dave Edmunds and if he can't make it when we need a speaker he'll find someone who can. There are still people around who need reminding about a few basic scene-of-the-crime rules. Remember your first time," he added pointedly.

"Blimey, don't you ever forget anything," groaned Bodie.

"Nothing that funny, that's for sure. Thought Cowley was going to ignite," mused Doyle reminiscently. "I know Stebbins will pop in on demand to talk about negotiating in siege situations. We never had any training and I could've done with some in the early days."

"Subtlety never was your forte," Bodie agreed.

Doyle ignored him with the ease of long practice. "I want both of them mainly for the benefit of Special Branch and us - CI5," he amended hastily as Bodie gave him a pointed look. "And if Hughie Patterson isn't inside when we need him he can give a select few lessons on how to become an amateur cracksman."

"You could always contact Marge Harper if he's doing bird."

Having taken all the stick he was prepared to about Margery's unrequited passion for his person, Doyle's look was one of lofty disdain. "Your turn."

"Great, you're in the mood." Bodie almost submerged his other half in a lunging embrace.

His mouth and tongue responding of their own accord, it was a while before Doyle found the strength of mind to push his partner away. "Later," he said severely.

"You'll be telling me you've got a headache next," remarked Bodie sadly, a disconsolate droop to his mouth.

Hardening his heart, Doyle tried to ignore the urges farther south. "Concentrate. I'll make it up to you later." 

"Yeah?" A speculative gleam replacing his gloom, Bodie's fingers inched towards Doyle's fly.

Draped over his seducer in seeming surrender, Doyle murmured, "Move it or lose it. Dessert comes later."

By dint of rolling his eye Bodie saw that Doyle wasn't joking. "I'll have lost the urge," he warned.

"Don't worry, I'll keep it warm for you. Who's heading the gym team?"

"Vennor until we've had a chance to suss him out, Cooper will do underwater training. Advanced driving will be...?" He looked at Doyle, who scrabbled through the various sheets of paper sharing the settee with them.

"Davis."

"Right. We'll have to try and fix something up on the flying side - at least for choppers. CI5 certainly uses them - we'll need to check on the other services."

"No one's going to pay for us to play with a chopper," Doyle pointed out with regret.

"I'm serious. Remember that time when the pilot got winged, Turner couldn't take over and I was trying to get to the front?"

"I remember Cowley's language while we were watching from the ground. It seemed a long six seconds," Doyle conceded, that not one of his favourite memories. Visibly rousing himself, he added, "We'll need to come up with an instructor and an idea of the price though."

"You can leave that to me. There's an old mate of mine - SAS - runs a service into the City. He was bored out of his skull last time I saw him. What's left? Oh, yeah... Everyone will muck in on the interrogation techniques and role playing - although we'll need to involve Kate Ross more than she has been on those sessions."

"She'll love that."

"It was your idea," Bodie pointed out reasonably.

"Not one of my best."

"Shut up, will you, I've lost the thread. Where was I? Simpson will set up some kind of advanced first aid course."

"No one'll go for that," dismissed Doyle.

"They will if we say so. Terry McQueen nearly bled to death because his twit of a partner didn't know how to stop an arterial bleed."

"That was years ago."

"All six of them. It's always comforting to know your partner won't kill you with some well-meaning first aid."

"OK, but I can hear the comments we'll get from the lads already."

"The lasses, too, if I know them. What's left? Demolition will be Perry, drugs is you."

"They'll have more proficiency badges than a boy scout by the time they leave us. I wish we knew what the existing budget is. We're about to join the bureaucrats and money always talks with them."

"Funny you should say that," said Bodie nonchalantly, producing a sheaf of computer paper.

Scanning the first page, Doyle looked up in astonishment. "I reckon we'll be saving them money. Where did you get this from?"

"Where did Cowley, more like. The info. was on file. It was just a matter of knowing where to look for it."

When Doyle raised a sceptical eyebrow Bodie gave a hard-done-by sigh. "Trudy."

"That's more like it. Well, we're all set to dazzle them with our plans - if not our presentation. They aren't wasting much time interviewing us, are they."

"Which means they either hope we'll fall flat on our faces - "

" - or that they really want us. I haven't had an interview since I joined the police," mused Doyle, sounding singularly unperturbed as he stretched out his legs.

"Then how did you get into CI5?"

"You may well ask. I suppose you could call it an interview - I'd call it aversion therapy myself."

"What happened?" It was with some surprise that Bodie realised it was a topic he and Doyle had never got round to discussing.

"Well, I'd been due to go undercover on a drugs ring in Dagenham when - Are you listening to me?" Doyle demanded with asperity as his companion gave a theatrical snore.

"Every word."

"Good, because I'll be testing you later."

"In bed?" asked Bodie hopefully.

"I was thinking more of the floor."

"I'll get housemaid's knees," Bodie warned.

"Not for what I've got in mind you won't." 

The duvet beneath him preventing the inconvenient distraction of sensitive skin meeting the prickle of the carpet, Bodie didn't bother to question his partner's plans, having perfect faith that he would enjoy them. There was no sense of urgency in their love-making, just a sweet familiarity as they allowed the sexual tension to build in imperceptible stages.

Lying in front of the gas fire, oblivious to the sleet hitting the glass or the force of the wind which made a window rattle, Bodie was concentrating on watching Doyle. Straddling his lover, the muscles of his thighs bunched, Doyle sank down onto Bodie's penis an inch at a time until auburn curls mingled with black. Bodie gave a soft groan as Doyle rocked infinitesimally.

"If you've fallen asleep on me," gasped Doyle, "I may never speak to you again." His grip tightened over the arm Bodie had extended as an aid to his balance before Bodie slowly raised his knees.

"Ah, that's wonderful... No, no rest for the wicked, sunshine," Bodie admonished, loving the tiny changes of expression flicking across Doyle's face as he tightened his internal muscles and moved again, practised enough to be certain of his control and Bodie's response. Then they both began to work in earnest, a perfect fusion of flesh, Bodie's gaze on Doyle's vaulting ribcage and hollowed diaphragm as he rose and fell, abandoned ecstasy on his face when he came, splattering Bodie with warmth. 

Needing more pace than was wise for Doyle in this position of vulnerability, not to mention Bodie's back muscles, Bodie's release found Doyle beneath him, ankles locked around Bodie's neck as his lover drove into him, strokes hastening and shortening to their inevitable conclusion.

Recovering to find Doyle staring at him, his heart in his eyes, Bodie licked gently at the corner of the love-swollen mouth. "I know," he said, as if Doyle had spoken, subsiding to lie next to his seemingly boneless partner.

"Prefer it when I can see your face when you come," mumbled Doyle. "Knowing it's me makes you feel like that. Enjoyed that," he offered, grinning at his own inadequacy.

"I thought it was tolerable," Bodie allowed, but his smug expression and softened gaze betrayed him. "It just seems to get better and better," he added with wonderment. His Doyle-scented hand gestured vaguely, inadvertently bumping Doyle, who had not been expecting it, on the nose.

Rubbing gingerly at the afflicted area Doyle was too far gone to protest as he leant over his mate, still a little wobbly as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows. "Case I forgot to mention it, I love you, warts and all."

"Warts!" protested Bodie, when his mouth was his own again. "I'll give you... Maybe later, when I've got the strength. You've taken it out of me." 

"I can tell you where I'm trying to keep it, too. Bed?" suggested Doyle, sinking with caution onto his heels.

"Bed," agreed Bodie.

Their legs a little staggery, the duvet trailing behind them, they dispensed with cleanliness and ambled off for a well-deserved sleep.

oOo

 

Emerging from their interviews on Friday afternoon Bodie and Doyle headed for the nearest pub, belatedly recognising it as the spit and sawdust haven they had met Jack Crane in earlier that week. Supping their pints in peaceful accord, they watched the same two workmen play darts.

"Well, we're in," said Bodie finally. "Never expected them to tell us straight away. We must've gone down well - or they couldn't find anyone else enough of them could agree on," he added with the realism which was so much a part of him. "Only one thing left to do."

Doyle buried his nose in his glass.

"We've got to tell Cowley," Bodie insisted.

"I know," Doyle sighed, tugging at his already loosened tie, "though I still maintain you'd make a better job of doing that alone."

"Chicken?" 

Rubbing the side of his nose with his thumb Doyle thought about it. "More like apprehensive. We've got a perfect right to leave, and I know we're not letting him down or anything -- "

" - but it feels that way," completed Bodie in understanding.

Doyle gave his partner's bowed head an intent look. "I'll tell him if you like."

"About our plans for Macklin, too?"

Only then did Doyle notice the glimmer of mischief in the dark blue eyes. "You really had me... We've got the job," he added, as if it was only just sinking in. "A fortnight ago I thought I'd scuppered any chances of doing any job I'd enjoy. Jack must be mad leaving."

"'Specially with what the job pays. It's indecent," said Bodie.

Remembering the man who liked to claim he worked only for excitement and financial reward, Doyle smothered a grin.

"And you can stop smirking," Bodie added without heat, following his companion's thought processes without difficulty. "Finish that mouthful and we'll be off to see Cowley."

 

Beginning to lag behind Bodie as they approached Cowley's office, Doyle gave a defeated sigh when Bodie yanked him forward. Straightening his shoulders, Doyle knocked briskly on the door and pushed his off-balance partner into the room, following him a second later. He never knew quite how it happened but he found himself making a fairly comprehensible explanation. 

Cowley heard him out in silence, his expression, as was so often the case, telling them very little. "Are you expecting me to congratulate you?" he asked finally, nudging the bottle of Glenlivet over to them.

Bodie unfastened it while Doyle found two clean glasses.

"We know you better than that," Doyle said, taking up his drink as Bodie offered Cowley a refill. "Cheers." Relaxed now the worst was over, he sat down and gave the older man a thoughtful glance. "We realised you must have known about our application and probably about our appointment, but if you wanted us for the Centre why didn't you ask us, sir?"

Cowley paused, then raised his glass in a silent toast. "I trained you well."

"Looks like it," Bodie agreed. "But why, sir?"

"I didn't think you would welcome any recommendations of mine," he replied frankly.

"Maybe I wouldn't 'ave," said Doyle. "What about Bodie?"

Cowley gave a faint smile as Bodie said, "You cunning old bugger. You knew that if you pushed for us openly Willis - and probably Bernard - would have turned us down on principle."

"That was always a risk."

"I'd got that far," said Doyle. "But why do you want us at the Centre?"

"Quite apart from your obvious skills, if I can't have you working for CI5 I want you close at hand. You'll be in a good position to keep an eye on things from the Centre because you'll still be seeing enough of me - and my successor."

"And we make sure he keeps up the standards without CI5 having to foot the bill for our services," recognised Bodie, an appreciative grin in place.

"You and your bloody triple think," sighed Doyle, pouring everyone another drink and ignoring Cowley's look of disapproval. "But we won't be working specifically for any agency."

"Are you trying to warn me off by any chance?"

"No, sir. Just reminding you of the conditions under which Bodie and I accepted the job. Complete autonomy - within well-defined limits."

"I hope you got that in writing."

Bodie patted his breast pocket. "We waited 'specially. The ink's only just dry. We learnt that much from you."

"I'm delighted to hear it."

"I 'ope you'll still feel the same way six months from now," mused Doyle. "Jack might have let you ride rough-shod over him but we won't."

Cowley's gaze slid to Bodie, whose expression betrayed the fact he was enjoying himself. "Don't look at me, sir. I'm just the drill sergeant."

"Are you indeed?" His tone one of dry disbelief Cowley shared his fierce glare impartially between the two men relaxed in chairs on the other side of his desk. "I've just one question."

Having learnt a few tricks since their re-grading, neither Bodie nor Doyle attempted to break the silence.

Cowley gave a reluctant half-smile. "You'll do. Although I should like to know how you persuaded Willis, for one, to agree to your terms."

"I wish we could take all the credit," said Doyle, "but there are times when the inter-departmental rivalry can work for us. This was one of them. Each agency head was so busy trying to score off another that they let us get away with murder. I dunno who usually heads the interview board, but I'd put serious money on it being you. Maybe it's just as well you kept away."

"I thought so. But I wouldn't have agreed to pay you those exorbitant salaries."

"Never doubted it," said Bodie. "They're just the jam on the bread. To make a success of the Centre we need a free hand."

"And if in practice you find you aren't getting one?"

"We resign," replied Doyle promptly, deciding not to chance his arm and pour another drink. "If they give us six months, they'll start seeing results. Maybe next year will be the first that one member of British Intelligence isn't ordered to open fire on another."

"He can't help being an optimist," explained Bodie.

"Fifty quid on it," said Doyle instantly.

"You're on."

"When you've quite finished. You may care to know that the Home Secretary added his voice to those who recommended you for the post."

Even Bodie looked surprised. "Has CI5 got something on him, sir?"

"You're a cynic."

"It has," translated Doyle, amusement, resignation and respect all in evidence on his face. "But that doesn't change the facts. The Centre isn't going to be run solely for the convenience or benefit of any one department - including CI5."

"A threat, 4.5? May I remind you that your contract of employment with CI5 still has another three weeks to run."

"Well, actually, sir..." Trailing off into silence Bodie left it to his partner to add, "You've probably forgotten. While we both signed about three hundred sheets of paper, we didn't sign a contract of employment." Doyle offered an ingratiating beam.

The Scot's unwavering gaze wilted that piece of optimism before it travelled to Bodie, who was serenely finishing his drink. "Did you not? In which case your salaries and expenses having been coming out of our central budget for the last six months."

"It looks like it, sir. Administrative hiccup," Bodie offered cheerfully.

"That isn't a phrase I should care to use. Unauthorised personnel in the heart of CI5..."

"'S lucky we didn't screw up," Doyle told his partner in an audible aside.

"Too right. The wolves in Regent's Park have a lean and hungry look to them."

"Enough of your nonsense, I've work to do. If you don't intend to make the most of your free weekend I can always find you something to sober you up," Cowley added pointedly.

Doyle eyed him with caution. "We aren't due for one."

"Call it an early Christmas present."

"A miracle's nearer the mark," said Bodie disrespectfully as he got to his feet. Catching Doyle's eye in time to see him mouth the word 'Brian', he added nonchalantly, "We wanted a word with you about Macklin. Has - ?"

"He has. We wondered when you would get round to telling us your plans. Brian will take up the post of my number two on the first of January." Cowley nodded at them in obvious dismissal.

Seeing Doyle open his mouth, Bodie virtually dragged him from the office. "Don't push your luck, sunshine," he hissed as they strolled down the corridor.

"I was only going to ask how long he's had Macklin in mind for the job," said Doyle aggrieved. "And who's going to replace Brian, of course."

"Bloody Elephant's Child, you are."

"Who?"

"You've never heard of - ? Never mind that now," amended Bodie as they arrived in the slush-filled car park, London having experienced its heaviest fall of snow for years. "It's time we celebrated."

oOo

On Monday Bodie learnt who would be taking over from Brian Macklin as CI5's resident torturer - but as it was a task he knew he would enjoy, and which would dovetail neatly with his role at the Centre, he saved all his complaints for Doyle that evening.

"I don't know how Cowley swung it because he'll be getting my services free while I'm seconded from the Centre as and when I'm needed. Could throw our schedule out completely."

"Hark at you. Thinking of yourself as indispensable already, are you?" mocked Doyle.

"In some things."

"You could be right - where I'm concerned anyway," Doyle allowed, his mood mellow tonight.

"That's not the point. The point is that I'm going to be working my arse off between London and the Centre while you swan around in comfort."

"True. But you'll enjoy it, won't you." His head comfortably pillowed on Bodie's chest, Doyle turned his head, seeing little but a stubble-darkened chin. "I was hoping they'd fix up something like that until we could find someone suitable. Brian and Jack are both bloody good in their fields but they've forgotten the realities of life on the street. What if that happens to us?"

"We hope we'll recognise the fact and make way for someone better. But don't forget, neither of them worked for CI5. Jack's ex-SAS, Brian's MI6. Both of them were working under deep cover for years. Almost like living in civvy street."

"Can I be a fly on the wall when you tell that to Brian?" 

Bodie tugged gently on the handful of hair he was holding. "It makes a difference."

"You could be right. This carpet's making my bum itch, can we make ourselves comfortable?"

"Romance is dead," mourned Bodie. "Lying in front of the fire with his loved one isn't enough for him now."

Rolling over and taking Bodie off-guard as he landed on top of him, Doyle's expression was intent. "You are, you know. Loved, I mean."

"I gathered that. While you always used to get a little twinkle in your eye when you scored, recently you've been glowing like a Belisha Beacon. Quite unnerving."

"You seem to be bearing up under the strain."

"It's my SAS training," Bodie explained.

"Couldn't be any other reason, I suppose?"

"Certainly not."

Doyle slumped fully onto his mate. "Ah, carpet getting to you, is it?" he enquired solicitously.

"I've got sensitive skin," protested Bodie with as much dignity as was possible for one wriggling like a creature demented. "Up. Before you squash me."

"I'm taking good care of the important bits," protested Doyle, remaining where he was.

After a major upheaval, Bodie finally made it to his feet, only to pull a comical face. "There's something trickling down my thigh."

"It's all right, 's only me," Doyle assured him. "But as the last of the clean sheets are on the bed go and have a shower."

"What about you?"

"I'll be there."

But the shower was too cramped, making sharing more a test of ingenuity rather than a pleasure. After Doyle bumped his elbow for a third time and Bodie slipped on the soap they conceded defeat and concentrated on essentials, still giggling like schoolboys as they made their way to bed, after first making it. 

"I used to live an orderly life till I took up with you," complained Bodie, cornering the bottom sheets because bitter experience had taught him that Doyle wouldn't bother.

"Maybe our new place will have a bigger shower," said Doyle, sublimely unconscious of his sin.

"What new place?"

"In three weeks' time we'll be homeless - these flats come with the job, remember? Unless you think we can get away with sharing Jack's rabbit hutch?"

"Damn. I'd forgotten that small detail. And you can forget Jack's place. I wouldn't force a rabbit to live in it, never mind us. Besides, I've never fancied the idea of living above the shop."

"Didn't know you had any hidden desire to be a greengrocer," offered Doyle sleepily.

Bodie sat a pillow over his face until he judged his other half was more awake, kissing the scarlet, indignant face when it reappeared.

"Bastard."

"Always thought you had a lovely way with words," conceded Bodie.

"Stop complaining and start applying yourself to where we're going to live. Don't forget, while the Board must know we're living together it might be as well not to ram it down their throats."

"What makes you think they know?"

"Cowley knows."

"And is less than thrilled. But there's no way he'd pass on that titbit if he thought it would risk our application being turned down. As far as he's ever likely to trust anyone he trusts us."

"That only makes it worse." 

"How d'you work that out?"

"Because they aren't Cowley. If they find out we'll be out on our ear."

"Well, so far you've resisted any urge to hold hands in public. Unless they bug our place how are they going to find out?"

"Our place?"

"Would you rather we kept to separate establishments? I only asked," Bodie added with dignity, unshrivelled by his partner's glare.

"Silly sod. This has been the best month of my life. D'you reckon we could get away with it?"

"There's nothing unusual in two unmarried people buying a place together these days."

"It's not exactly common for two straight blokes to."

"Maybe not, but it's not unheard of."

"Did you say 'buy'?"

"Or rent. Whatever. I've never had a place of my own," mused Bodie. "Never wanted one till recently." 

"Nor me. Mum - and Dad, when he was around - moved from rented place to place, dodging the bailiffs most of the time. When I left home it was bedsits, police accommodation and then a CI5 flat. Be nice to settle down, grow roots..."

Alive to the unconscious note of wistfulness, Bodie kissed him. "What do you want to do?"

"We could rent a place if you don't want to commit yourself to buying one. Whatever. I'm easy."

"I know," said Bodie, giving his companion's genitals a friendly squeeze, "but there's no need to announce the fact. We could afford to buy a house. Or I suppose we could," he added with sudden doubt, the vagaries of the property market not a subject which had ever loomed large on his horizon.

"By CI5 standards we're going to be disgustingly rich - only in CI5 we never had to pay any bills. It'll be a bit of a shock, that. Have a think about it. I know you get itchy feet. There's no point you tying yourself down if you don't fancy the idea."

"I'm already tied, remember? We might not have a piece of paper to prove it, but I'm tied," said Bodie softly, his satisfaction evident in his voice. It changed to a grunt of pain as Doyle rolled on top of him.

"Jesus, Ray, you weigh a ton!"

"That's not what you said earlier," said Doyle, remaining where he was but taking his weight on his elbows like any well-trained gentleman.

Bodie began to tap a private tune on Doyle's rump with his palms, lingering more than an orthodox drummer would consider necessary. "Let's get a house. It's more private than a flat."

"With a garden. I've never had it away out in the open - not properly. You know, naked." Doyle's dreamy gaze was obviously contemplating future glories.

"It'll need to be a bloody big garden to be that private. Still, we could give it a whirl. I've just realised, the cars will have to go back to Cowley - and I sold my old one."

"So we'll need a set of wheels as well."

"Two sets if I'm going to be commuting between London and the Centre. Still, it only takes forty minutes to reach London."

"You try making it in that time and you'll be nicked for speeding before you've even hit the motorway. And you won't have an ID or siren to save you."

"I fancy a Harley Davidson," announced Bodie, ignoring that classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.

"You would. I'm talking something serviceable, reliable - and cheap. Mind, I wouldn't object to seeing you in your biking leathers. Or out of them, come to that."

"Stop changing the subject. We'll need a car each."

Doyle opened one eye. Reassured by the contentment he saw on his companion's face he mumbled his assent and fell asleep. 

 

oOo

 

"We should've smelt a rat when Cowley gave us last weekend off," groused Bodie, abandoning his attempts to finish a very dull report.

"I did," Doyle reminded him. "If it bothers you that much that we're going to be working Christmas, how come you're the one who volunteered us?"

Having assumed Doyle would never get to hear that small detail, Bodie sighed. "My brain was slow to catch up with my mouth."

Doyle nodded wisely. "Situation normal in other words."

"It was just that Betty mentioned the Old Man had an invite to spend Christmas with an old friend from his army days who was only in the country until the 29th. An Angus MacCleod."

"Welsh, is he?"

"No, Scot - Up yours. But it isn't often Cowley wants time off and - You don't mind, do you?" Bodie added with a trace of doubt as it belatedly occurred to him that perhaps he should have consulted his other half first.

Doyle debated letting him sweat but heard himself say, "We've worked enough Christmases in our time, one more can't hurt. Besides, touch wood, it's usually as boring as hell, with nothing to do but try and sound as if you're sober. We can celebrate the bits of Christmas we want to a week late."

"I'll pass on the turkey and Christmas pud," said Bodie with decision. "We can celebrate after we've left the Squad - once we've sobered up, bearing in mind that our last day is also New Year's Eve."

"At least we haven't put in enough service to qualify for one of those bloody awful gold-plated clocks. I suppose we should organise a booze-up at the Red Lion for anyone who can make it."

Having rummaged in the pockets of his black leather jacket, much of Bodie's attention had been given to scanning the letter he had found there. When Doyle stopped talking, he gave an absent grunt of encouragement.

An accurately thrown paperclip ensured his attention. "I thought you were supposed to be up to your eyes in work?" said Doyle severely. "That's the only reason I agreed to bore myself silly helpin' you out."

"You're a hero. Throw a stapler and you'll find yourself trying to eject it from a very personal place," Bodie added mildly. "Can't go round damaging Government property. This is from Inger," he added, holding the letter aloft. "She's settling down great, found herself a good bloke, enjoying the life and the work. She sends her love to both of us and hopes we'll be very happy."

"That's nice," said Doyle vaguely. Then the last portion of what Bodie had said sank in. "Eh?"

Bodie nodded. "I may have been a bit indiscreet."

"What's new? On the other hand, she never needed to be told anything twice. Next time you write you'd better tell her we are - happy, I mean. And you can stop looking so pleased with yourself. Is there any chance of you doing any work, or are you leaving it all up to me?"

"I am working - or I was."

"You wouldn't have so much to do if you'd kept up-to-date over the last few months. The only reason you're doing it now is because you're too chicken to hand the backlog over to Brian."

Bodie looked miffed but made no attempt to deny the obvious. "It's gone eight and I've had enough. You can take me -- " Interrupted by the telephone, he watched his partner leave to answer a summons from Cowley, before reluctantly returning to work.

Doyle returned about forty minutes later with an odd expression on his face. "Let's go home. I'd like a word in private."

"Is everything all right?"

"Course. Daft bugger," Doyle added in more of his usual tone. "Come on. I'll drive." Refusing to answer any questions during the journey home, he allowed himself to be man-handled into Bodie's flat.

"So what's it all about?" Bodie demanded, half-teasing, half-serious as he pinned Doyle to the wall.

Doyle handed him an envelope. "Go on, open it."

Staring at the cheque, Bodie's lips moved as if he needed to read the figures aloud to make sure they were real. "It's signed, and with this year's date and everything," he said finally. "Did Cowley give you this?" 

"Personally," Doyle confirmed, looking unusually gloomy for a man who had just been presented with a large sum of money.

"Then it'll bounce," said Bodie with conviction. "There's over twenty thousand quid here."

"I had noticed." Doyle poured both of them a large scotch, downing half of his immediately.

"How come?"

"The ten months' pay he stopped after I was shot, an ex gratia payment in lieu of any invalidity pension - I ask you, do I look like I need one? - plus an accommodation and transport allowance for those months. And interest." Doyle slumped limply onto the nearest chair, looking pole-axed.

"Did you ask him for that?"

"Do me a favour. I'd forgotten all about it. You don't suppose he's sickening for something, do you?" Doyle added in all seriousness. "He even apologised for not having authorised payment before. I ask you, Cowley apologising..."

Bodie gave his bemused-looking companion an affectionate grin. "And now you're feeling guilty enough to offer to work for CI5 for nothing."

"Of course I'm not, but..." Doyle shook his head. "I've never had this much money in my life. Not in one lump."

"You earned it. But I can't believe he coughed up the interest, too," added Bodie.

"What do you mean 'too'?" Doyle pounced on that betrayal faster than a homeless flea on a dog.

"Did I say that?" asked Bodie, purposefully vague.

"I should've guessed," sighed Doyle. "You must have a screw loose. What did you threaten him with?"

"I gave up on lost causes years ago. No, I just appealed to his better nature."

"What did you do?" Taking his lover in an armlock, Doyle reinforced the demand by blowing inside Bodie's shirt collar and making him shiver.

"That's the truth," protested Bodie. "Honest to god, would I come out with a line like that? Me?"

"I suppose not," conceded Doyle, releasing him. "But why did you say anything in the first place?"

"I didn't - or not intentionally. Remembered how easy I'd found it to access your bank account - and considering the trouble the Fraud Squad have I shouldn't have - and told Cowley. Naturally he wanted to know why I'd done it and... one thing led to another. It's the first time I've ever seen him taken aback. I think he'd forgotten about it."

"Him and me both." Doyle picked up the cheque again. "Well, this will certainly make the house hunting a bit easier. Thank god we found that cottage to rent until we get ourselves sorted out. Neaten yourself up and I'll treat you to a slap-up meal."

Tucking in his shirt, which had suffered during Doyle's assault on his person, Bodie cocked an eyebrow. "I'm a bit old to be a toyboy, aren't I?"

"Dunno," replied Doyle cheerfully, "but I'm going to enjoy playing with you later."

oOo

 

To their relief it became obvious that no one around the Squad knew the identity of those taking over the running of the Centre. Not that Bodie and Doyle were worried about people's reactions to their appointment, it was the flak they knew they would attract if word got out that they were responsible for the fact Macklin was to be Cowley's new number two. With true cowardice they took great pains to avoid Brian, who was mercifully absent for what was left of December, Fields taking over the few refresher courses that were required as CI5 enjoyed a relatively quiet run up to Christmas.

The Christmas break itself was peaceful as London emptied. Those luckless few required to be on duty vigorously sucked peppermints if called upon to meet either Bodie or Doyle, who had belatedly realised it was their duty to set a good example and remain sober. Gaining a certain private amusement from such naivety amongst the newer Squad members, Doyle turned a blind eye to the blue movies being shown in the film theatre while Bodie pretended not to notice the poker school which had set up home in the locker rooms. They were so bored that they caught up not only with their own paperwork, but a substantial part of Cowley's, highly relieved when he returned freeing them for four days.

"Right, where are my pressies?" demanded Bodie the moment he and Doyle arrived home.

"What makes you think I bought you any?"

"The fact you haven't let me in your flat since last Wednesday."

"Ah. So where have you hidden mine?" asked Doyle, having made a surreptitious check of all the likely places.

"Your flat, of course."

"I should've guessed. Where?" added Doyle with suspicion.

"Under the bed, next to those you got me."

"You rotten..." By then Doyle was halfway up the stairs, a laughing Bodie hard at his heels.

Presents duly unwrapped and giggled over or admired as appropriate, Doyle remained sprawled amongst the wrapping paper littering the floor of his bedroom, watching his fidgeting lover with some amusement.

"What is it? You've got that shifty look," he said tolerantly.

"It's just... Kate said you'd bought something for me at her show," explained Bodie awkwardly.

"I can't remember seeing you blush before," mused Doyle. "Wouldn't have thought you knew how." He watched with interest as Bodie's colour deepened. "What things? Oh, she told you about the sketches."

"That's right. So where are they?" demanded Bodie, hands on his hips as he stood menacingly over his partner.

"I love it when you're butch." Uncowed, Doyle planted a kiss on Bodie's corduroy-clad groin. "Top cupboard on the left, I think."

Bodie retrieved the sketches with care, placing them on the bed. "How could you forget these?"

Busying himself collecting up the torn wrapping paper, Doyle didn't answer for a moment. "I didn't exactly forget," he admitted, his voice muffled where he was bent over. Straight-legged, his backside in the air, he made an engaging target.

Moving quietly behind him Bodie placed one hand in the small of Doyle's back, exerting just enough pressure to stop him from straightening as he palmed a small buttock in a thoughtful fashion with his free hand. "What did you do, exactly?" The slap he delivered to one cheek was warning enough, Doyle only too aware of his vulnerable position. He had to put his palms flat on the floor to steady himself, aware he was turning on faster than a tap as Bodie's fingers drifted across his buttocks and down his inner thigh.

"I can't think while you're doing that," Doyle complained.

"That's the general idea." A second slap made the other cheek sting. Doyle shivered.

"Hardly enough meat on you to feed a sparrow," remarked Bodie, tracing his thumb-nail across the sensitive undercheek. "Why didn't you give me the sketches?"

"It seemed a bit vain handing over pictures of myself as a present. Lemme up, my back's aching."

Bodie doubted it but helped him to straighten anyway, his mouth quirking when Doyle turned. "That's not the only thing by the look of you. Want me to do something about that?"

Fly unzipped, Doyle gave a sigh of relief as he was able to make some necessary structural adjustments. "I thought you wanted to look at those." He nodded to the drawings Bodie had left on the bed.

"I intend to. But it'll be more fun comparing them to a live model. Get 'em off." He tweaked Doyle's unfastened jeans.

"Or what?"

"I'll do it for you," replied Bodie, stalking his prey with mock aggression.

Remaining where he was, Doyle draped his arms over his partner's shoulders. "Can do that another night," he suggested huskily. "I'm in the mood for something slow and easy tonight - with you doin' all the hard work. Is that all right?"

"It's always all right with you," replied Bodie with simple truth. Relegated to the floor, the drawings were forgotten until morning.

Having won the toss for who cooked breakfast, Bodie sat at the kitchen table studying the set of anatomical studies, nodding his agreement at some, frowning at others and openly smiling at a couple. He paused at the last two sketches without saying anything for so long that his very stillness attracted Doyle's attention.

"What's up?"

"When were these done?" Bodie asked tonelessly.

Leaving the frying pan Doyle ambled over to join him, the belt of his unfastened dressing gown trailing behind him. "I'm not sure. February? Some time round there. Why?"

Having been leaning over his partner's shoulder Doyle suddenly found himself with his arms full of Bodie, Bodie's stubble scratching his naked breast. Glancing over the dark head to the drawings Doyle realised that the last two would have delighted his surgeon, being studies of his now barely visible scars, detailed enough to show the down which had begun to regrow around the site of the wounds. To the artist the raw marks had been no more than an interesting study in abused flesh and its capacity to heal. 

Feeling a trace of moisture against his skin Doyle's flippant comment about people who dribbled died when he realised what it was. The first time Bodie had seen the scars his control had been broken, although they had both seen far uglier sights. But it made a difference when you loved the person who wore them, and knew what they cost. Bodie's always looked on it as his duty to keep me from harm but even he can't believe it wouldn't have happened if he'd been there. No? he reminded himself.

"Judging by these it must've been early February," he offered matter of factly as he stroked Bodie's broad back. "I told you I heal quickly."

The arms around him tightened their grip to the point of pain before they relaxed. "It wouldn't have happened if I'd been there," a gruff voice insisted, Bodie's breath tickling the drift of hair around Doyle's nipple and tightening the small nub of flesh.

Trying to ignore the sensation, which as ever travelled straight to his groin, Doyle's fingers sifted through the dark hair which curled just behind Bodie's neat-set ears. "Don't kid yourself. The odds are I'd've got you killed on the job. Even you wouldn't have been able to stop me being stupid enough to leave the French windows unlocked. I was lucky I didn't end up getting a more permanent lesson. Oy," he added in a more acidic tone, "if that's you wiping your nose on the edge of this dressing gown I'll clout you."

Bodie gave a husky choke of laughter, openly using the edge of the towelling robe before he drew away, looking rather self-conscious until Doyle handed him a mug of tea, kissed his ear and sat next to him, flicking through the pile of sketches with some unease.

"It's a salutary experience seeing yourself as others see you," Doyle remarked. "Barrel chest and legs like bloody pipe cleaners."

"Blind as a bat, you are," retorted Bodie, smacking Doyle's hand away from the drawings. "I'm going to get some of these framed."

"There's no way I'm staring at myself all day - unless we get some of you done, too. Kate usually runs a couple of master classes during the summer and she's always on the look-out for unusual models."

"Don't even think it," Bodie warned him. "Phew, what's that - ?"

Leaping to his feet, Doyle rescued the charred remains of their breakfast. "Toast?" he suggested brightly through the smoke neither of them had noticed until now.

"You dress, I'll cook," sighed Bodie, carefully putting the sketches to one side.

 

With the skill of long practice at putting off unpleasant thoughts Bodie had avoided thinking about the chore of packing their belongings ready for the move until Doyle reminded him that evening.

"No packing cases," Bodie pointed out with sorrow.

"Yes there are. Delivered ten o'clock this morning - Stuart house-sat for us. So mind yourself, the sitting room's full of 'em."

Resigning himself to the inevitable Bodie took off his jacket. But he greeted the call on his RT an hour later with open relief. It proved to be nothing more than Control passing on the telephone number of Peter Davey, an old friend from his SAS days. Glad of any excuse to stop working Bodie rang him back.

"I thought you and Pete got on like a house on fire - in small doses?" Doyle said when Bodie had rung off.

"How did you know it was Pete?"

"Because I listened. Why did you turn him down? Didn't you fancy the idea of another boozy reunion?"

"It wasn't that." Bodie shrugged and returned to wrapping various objets d'art - or what passed for them in this household.

"But what?" asked Doyle, unimpressed by this untypical activity.

"Well, I know you didn't take to him - "

" - or him to me," interrupted Doyle with a grin. "That's never the reason you turned him down?"

"But what will you do?"

Doyle pretended to think about it. "Read a good book, play with myself... Give me a break. Just because we live together doesn't mean we can't spend the odd evening apart - well, night, knowing that mob. They take their drinking seriously. Where's the problem?"

Bodie threw a wodge of crumpled newspaper in Doyle's direction. "You're trying to tell me I'm being a prat, aren't you."

"Not trying, telling. Look, I'll come and cheer you on in those bloody cricket matches because I enjoy watching you. I'll even stay sober enough to drive you home after the booze-up. Apart from that you're on your own. Same as I'll be when I want to go to a Clapton gig, a Bunuel movie, meet an old mate or go swimming. Though I think you might humour me there. I like looking at you in trunks - those little black ones," he added wistfully.

"Bloody posing pouch is more like it. I've got a perfectly adequate pair of trunks if they're needed, thank you."

"I remember them well. My auntie used to knit ones just like 'em. You haven't thrown away the ones I got you?"

"I thought you just got them for a joke."

"I did, in part. The other part wanted to see you inside them."

"You wanted to look at me that long ago?" By Bodie's reckoning his unwanted gift had been received a good three years ago.

"I wouldn't have said no," Doyle admitted.

"I might still have them, I suppose. Could always go and look."

A long arm hauled him back. "You'd do anything to get out of the packing. Tomorrow's our last day so we've got a lot to do tonight. You can take that lecherous look out of your eye. But ring Pete first. Hang about, when's the piss-up planned for?"

"The fifth. Why?"

Doyle frowned. "Looks like you'll have to give it a miss. You won't be here."

Suspicion writ large on his face Bodie crouched down beside him. "Where will I be, Ray?"

"Abroad," said Doyle unwillingly.

"It's lucky they've abolished the death penalty. I'd swing for you otherwise. What have you planned?"

"Only a holiday. It was going to be a surprise," Doyle added in disgust.

"You'd have had to tell me sometime," Bodie pointed out, trying not to look too pleased. "Hang on, we can't afford a holiday."

That practicality was so out of character that Doyle began to giggle.

"Raymond, where are we going?"

Judging Bodie's level of frustration to a nicety Doyle sank back on his heels and resumed his packing. "Skiing. I know it's a bit pricey but I've always wanted to learn. Three weeks in Austria."

Bodie's horrified expression betrayed him, although he made a valiant effort to recover. "That'll be great," he lied hollow-voiced, regarding those who voluntarily subjected themselves to snow when there was no need as certifiable.

"Knew you'd enjoy it," said Doyle, although his wobbling voice betrayed him.

Finding himself flat on the floor with Bodie's not inconsiderable weight threatening to grind him into the carpet, Doyle wheezed, "The Maldives - Indian Ocean. Three weeks from the fourth."

"The Maldives..." A dreamy expression on his face, Bodie kissed him. "For that I'll help you with the packing." 

"Ah, but will you come swimming with me?"

"If I can find Auntie's swimming trunks. And it's no good you groping me, we've got packing to do, remember?"

Wrinkling his nose in regretful accord, Doyle sighed. "After you."

 

Five hours of concerted effort saw the two flats cleared and both men exhausted.

"I'll be glad when we finally get settled," mumbled Doyle, as he staggered into the shower Bodie had just vacated.

"We'll go house-hunting as soon as we get back from holiday. I vote we don't bother to unpack much at the new place - we'll only have to repack it." A wet sponge catching him in the face, Bodie beat a prudent retreat.

"Are we having a heat wave, or is it just us?" enquired Doyle as he returned from his shower to collapse onto the bed next to Bodie.

"Us. I hate packing." 

His eyes closed, Doyle gave an uninterested grunt. 

Bodie propped himself up on one elbow the better to study the relaxed face next to him and added, "Last day tomorrow."

"I hadn't forgotten," said Doyle, opening his eyes.

"No regrets?"

"About the future? Not one. And you're OK too, aren't you."

Satisfied, Bodie subsided, smiling up at the ceiling. "More than that. If this is happiness, I could get to enjoy it."

"'S better than happiness. Happiness is ephemeral. At least I think that’s the word?" He cocked a questioning eyebrow at Bodie, who shrugged.

"Sounds right to me."

"That's no guarantee. Anyway, it doesn't last. Contentment does. Boring, isn't it." But Doyle's smile denied it as he reached out, flicking off the light.

oOo

They were quiet over breakfast, conscious of the wrench involved in leaving CI5. The morning was spent with Cowley and Macklin while they updated the latter on their much depleted workloads while trying to avoid Macklin's ironical gaze, yet to ascertain what the former instructor felt about their interference in his affairs. Bodie's stomach was just beginning to growl hopeful messages about lunch when Cowley glanced at his watch.

"I was forgetting. You're both due to see Henderson at one thirty."

"Henderson!" exclaimed Doyle. "For what?"

"A complete physical."

"Today's our last day," protested Bodie.

"All the more reason to make sure you're in the peak of physical condition when you leave. New policy," added Macklin blandly.

Doyle gave him a bitter look. "I wonder who dreamt that up."

"I can't imagine. If you hurry you won't be late."

The habit of obedience ingrained, Bodie and Doyle set off for Henderson's office - complaining, it was true, but they went.

Losing the toss, Doyle went first, enduring some very personal questions before removing his jacket and tee shirt with a poor grace. His hands had just closed over the fly of his jeans when the lights went out. When they came back on approximately three seconds later it was to reveal the connecting door to Henderson's office to be open, familiar figures spilling into the room.

"You wouldn't credit the money I was offered to allow you to strip right down," Henderson told Doyle.

"My bid was three pence," volunteered Murphy. "Happy leaving party."

Doyle evaded the threatened embrace by dragging his tee shirt over his head, only to be caught in a generous kiss when his face reappeared. Tolerant, he pushed Murphy away, taking the glass Macklin handed him with a nod of thanks before eyeing it dubiously. "It's poisoned?"

"Why should you think that?"

Doyle gestured vaguely. "The job... We - "

"Your first great thought for years. I'm not complaining. Much," Macklin added pleasantly.

Doyle grinned and turned in time to see Bodie caught by an enthusiastic Murphy. Creeping up behind the latter he said in a passable imitation of Cowley, "And what, may I ask, are you doing?"

"Even Cowley would be able to guess," protested Bodie, righting himself and floating a mock punch at Murphy.

"I'm off duty," said Murphy unrepentantly, rubbing the buttock Doyle had pinched. "Unlike some of these poor sods who are on stand-by. Which is why they're drinking orange juice," he added for Macklin's benefit.

Doyle just beat Macklin to the glass Lisa was holding, sampling the contents. "Always enjoyed my daily dose of vitamin C," he agreed, nodding at Macklin, who drifted away. 

Lisa gave Doyle a wary look as she took back her glass.

"Just make sure someone keeps the Old Man's glass topped up with scotch," Doyle advised her, aware that, as usual, the orange juice had been generously spiked with vodka. A moment later he was swamped by Lucas and McCabe, who had returned to CI5 to help see Bodie and himself off in style.

The impromptu party was informal and unstructured, people drifting in and out throughout the afternoon. Sally and Allison arrived together just after seven, by which time Doyle was happily embracing everything that moved. Equally well lubricated, Bodie reserved his embrace for Sally.

Having made time to return to the festivities, Cowley duly made the presentation. Cravenly Doyle left it to Bodie to make the speech of thanks, his eyes bright with anticipation as he decided on how to make the best possible use of their present - a video camera. It was easier to concentrate on that than the generosity of those who had contributed to it. By the time Cowley was called away again the evening had reached the boisterous stage; it received more unnecessary life when Stuart, Brown and Burrows arrived after a successful conclusion to their four-day operation.

Taking a much needed break, Doyle slumped on a chair and fished an ice cube from his glass.

"If that's vodka you're going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning," remarked Macklin from his side, rosier-cheeked than was normal after a prodigious intake of gin.

"Water," said Doyle sadly. "One of us has got to stay sober and I reckon it's a bit late for Bodie." His mate was on the far side of the room, involved in a boozy discussion with Anson, Catchpole and Brown, the earnest concentration on every face betraying how drunk they were.

"Never thought I'd see the day."

"What day?" asked Doyle, faint but pursuing as it dawned on him that perhaps he had left it a little late to switch from scotch.

"I'll call you a cab before you leave," said Murphy tolerantly.

"You can call me whatever you like," offered Doyle generously.

It was a moment before Macklin realised he was joking, but he managed a convincing smile. "Look around you, what do you see?"

"A lot of people drinking too much - you for one."

"You're getting brave in your old age."

"Ah, but I'm a civilian now."

"Not quite. How many of the people here do you know?"

"All of 'em, of course. How much have you had to drink?"

"You're missing my point," said Macklin irritably.

"Maybe if you'd hurry up and make it."

"Six months ago if there'd been a party there would have been two distinct groups - the old guard and the newcomers. Them and us. Today, well, you can see for yourself. Now it's just CI5. I reckon a lot of the credit for that can go to you and Bodie. So do a few other people."

Unaccustomed to compliments from Macklin, Doyle rubbed his nose. "Thanks," he said weakly, relieved to find Bodie at his side. "But we never expected..." He gestured to the box containing the video camera. "Whose idea was it?"

"Mine," said Stuart cheerfully.

"An' mine," added Murphy reproachfully, so far gone that he had slung a matey arm around Macklin's shoulders.

"We knew you and Bodie would find a good use for it, you see," added Stuart with a lecherous wink.

There was a nasty moment when Doyle thought he might be blushing as it belatedly occurred to him that it was not usual for a joint present to be given, let alone a camera. "How long have you known about Bodie and me?" he asked weakly.

Stuart gave a crow of triumph. "Told you," he gloated.

"You owe me a fiver," Macklin told Murphy, before adding to Doyle, "We didn't for sure - until you confirmed it just now."

"Oh shit." Determinedly unembarrassed, Doyle glared at him. 

Bodie only laughed. "Just so long as it doesn't go any farther - and you don't expect film shows." He knew they could rely on the discretion of these three men regarding their private lives. "I've just thought, we can get our revenge on everyone at the six-monthly assessments," he added to Doyle.

"Can't we just," said Doyle, a joyous gleam in his eyes. "I've already got a couple of things lined up just for you, Brian."

"Me? Oh, no, I'm - "

"Cowley's number two, therefore on active duty and in need of assessment." Bodie ruined the effect by hiccupping at the end, but the message was quick to spread round the room. Naturally the news required a toast.

 

Having said their goodbyes to everyone including Cowley, Bodie and Doyle slipped away while the party was still in full swing, only to remember that their cars had been returned to CI5's car pool. It was then that Bodie noticed the chauffeur-driven Mercedes in the car park, learning that it was awaiting them, courtesy of Cowley.

The Mercedes had pulled into the cobbled area outside their flats before either man felt able to say anything.

"He's off his trolley," announced Doyle with conviction.

"Or someone booked it in his name," added Bodie.

"Then they can pay for it," said Doyle with decision, opening the door just as the chauffeur approached to perform that office.

Turning away to hide his giggles as Doyle mumbled what could have passed for an apology, Bodie was openly laughing as the car sped off, the chauffeur still walking a little oddly.

Two boxes on the cobbles caught their attention.

"I know one's the video camera, what's this?" asked Doyle, leaving Bodie to struggle with both as he fished for the front door key.

"Dunno, but it weighs a ton," grunted Bodie.

The box proved to contain twelve bottles of Glenlivet and a short note: _You call me George only when I give you leave to do so._

Bodie tucked away the note with care and gave Doyle a fierce glare. "If you start piping your eye I'll brain you."

"Was not," insisted Doyle, making no comment about Bodie's too bright eyes. "Still, at least we've got something for him to drink when he comes to dinner."

"If, you mean."

"When. Invited him for the week we get back from holiday," said Doyle with a casualness which dared Bodie to make anything of it.

"Didn't expect a personal touch like this from him," muttered Bodie gruffly.

"Don't worry," said Doyle, slinging an arm around his shoulders, "knowing Cowley I'm sure there's a catch in it somewhere. Wanna come to bed and fuck me senseless?"

His expression lighting, Bodie thought about it. "Drink willing I might as well have a go - as there's nothing on TV." Dodging with ease the punch floated in his direction, he paused to give his lover a long, whisky-flavoured kiss in the dark hallway. "OK?"

"Passable," Doyle allowed, just before shoving Bodie in the direction of the bedroom.

THE END

Completed January 1990


End file.
